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A Modern 

Patrician 



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Boston 

JAMBS H EARLE CSL COMPANY 
178 W ashington Street 








THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two Copies Received 


JUN 3 1903 


(\ Copyright Entry 

W 3- / <\ o 3 

Cl^SS ^ XXc. No 


L / o i if 

COPY B. 


Copyright , 1903. 

By James H. Earle & Company. 
All rights reserved. 


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DEDICATION TO MY FATHER. 

* 


Whose love arid care made my childhood a summer 
day , whose beautiful life became the inspiration of 
my girlhood ideals , and whose memory is now the 
most precious treasure I possess. 











, 

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■ 













. 





























CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

1 The Stewarts 

_ 

_ 

_ 

_ 

PAGE 

13 

2 

Beechdale 

- 

- 

- 

- 

19 

3 

Breakfast T alk - 

- 

- 

- 

- 

27 

4 

A Social Dilemma 

- 

- 

- 

- 

33 

5 

Getting Up In Life 

- 

- 

- 

- 

39 

6 

At Clover Farm 

- 

- 

- 

- 

48 

7 

Newspaper Gossip 

- 

- 

- 

- 

54 

8 

Society 

- 

- 

- 

- 

62 

9 

Margaret's Visit - 

- 

- 

- 

- 

68 

to 

Getting Into Society 

- 

- 

- 

- 

78 

11 

Daily Happenings 

- 

- 

- 

- 

84 

12 

As Society Sees It 

- 

- 

- 

- 

92 

13 

An Evening Out 

- 

- 

- 

- 

105 

14 

Wearied - 

- 

- 

- 

- 

114 

t5 

A Letter - 

- 

-- 

- 

- 

123 

16 

A Healthy Contrast 

- 

- 

- 

- 

130 

17 

Coming Out 

- 

- 

- 

- 

145 

18 

The New Name 

- 

- 

- 

- 

153 

19 

Phillip - 

- 

- 

- 

- 

160 

20 

Margaret's Errand 

- 

- 

- 

- 

171 

21 

Preparation 

- 

- 

- 

- 

177 

22 

In Fashion's Whirl 

- 

- 

- 

- 

187 

23 

Social Reporting 

- 

- 

- 

- 

203 

24 

Rich and Wretched 

- 

- 

- 

- 

214 


CHAPTER 

25 Mourning 

. 

_ 

_ 

_ 

PAGE 

229 

26 

The New Purpose 

- 

- 

- 

- 

236 

27 

Before the Fire Logs 

- 

- 

- 

- 

243 

28 

The Giddy Maze 

- 

- 

- 

- 

252 

29 

Hopeless and Heartless 

- 

- 

- 

- 

262 

30 

A Dazzling Proposal 

- 

- 

- 

- 

274 

31 

Counsel - 

- 

- 

- 

- 

283 

32 

Unravelled 

- 

- 

- 

- 

293 

33 

Rejected - 

- 

- 

- 

- 

304 

34 

Surprise - 

- 

- 

- 

- 

313 

35 

Elopement 

- 

- 

- 

- 

320 

36 

The Return 

- 

- 

- 

- 

328 

37 

Maud's Punishment 

- 

- 

- 

- 

338 

38 

Unexpected Meeting 

- 

- 

- 

- 

348 

39 

Home Again 

- 

- 

- 

- 

357 

40 

Father and Daughter 

- 

- 

- 

- 

363 

41 

Settling Down Again 

- 

- 

- 

- 

371 

42 

Days of Peace - 

- 

- 

- 

- 

381 

43 

Troublesome Thoughts 

- 

- 

- 

- 

388 

44 

Realizing 

- 

- 

- 

- 

398 

45 

Soldier Phillip's Visit 

- 

- 

- 

- 

406 

46 

Off for San Juan 

- 

- 

- 

- 

414 

47 

The Wounded Rough Rider 

- 

- 

- 

420 

48 

Waiting - 

- 

- 

- 

- 

430 

49 

Phillip Wins 

- 

- 

- 

- 

438 


























A MODERN PATRICIAN 


CHAPTER I. 


THE- STEWARTS. 

STRETCH of meadow-land, bathed in 
sunlight, lay to the east; off to the 
south rose a cluster of baby hills; west- 
ward extended a belt of woodland 
whose serried wall of green seemed to 
challenge any violation of the sylvan 
shade. Up from the meadow came the 
lazy tinkling of a cow-bell. A warm 
south breeze wafted the fragrant odor 
from a freshly-mown clover field not far away; and! 
all the air was musical with the hum of busy insects 
and the twittering of birds. 

Countless were the pastorals hidden away here in 
Nature’s heart, yet how few of the men and women 
going to and fro in their daily toil were aware of 
them. What strange perversity! Nature’s own 
children, nurtured at her breast, lulled to sleep by 
her sweet music and fanned so lovingly by her gen- 
tle breath, yet passing on through life with eyes that 
see not and unhearing ears. 

In one, however, a young girl stretched in grate- 
ful shade, there drinking deep of the loveliness 
around her, Nature found a sweet interpreter of her 



14 


THE STEWARTS. 


various language. Her rounded elbows pressed the 
mossy earth, her dim-pled chin rested in one glow- 
ing palm, the other hand lay hidden in her thick, 
brown hair; and in her eyes there was that veiled 
and yet far-seeing look that painters sigh to catch. 

Suddenly a deep, hoarse resounding note smote 
upon the quiet; the noon hour was at hand. The 
girl started slightly at the rude awakening from her 
day-dreams. 

Soon from a corn field at her right came the tall, 
well-knit figures of two farmers. She watched them 
as they walked up the gravel-path leading to the 
farmhouse. The one was a man of fifty or more, 
the other much younger. But her eyes rested for a 
moment upon the elder of the two and there was 
deep admiration in the glance. Whenever the girl 
looked upon her father’s strong, yet kindly face, and 
noted, too, his gentle dignity of presence, she felt 
instinctively how far he surpassed that type of farm- 
ers with which she came in daily contact. 

Wayland Stewart turned and met his daughter's 
earnest eyes. 

“Pearl,” he called, “Janet does not like to wait 
dinner; come in, dear!” 

With a little, wistful sigh she sprang to her feet; 
then ran across the grass to the door. 

Wayland Stewart was born and reared on a New 
England farm. As a bov he worked hard, for Na- 
ture gives grudgingly in the land of the Pilgrims; 
but he loved the life. His strong, young lungs 


A MODERN PATRICIAN . 


15 


drank in eagerly the healthful draughts of his native 
air. His mind developed with equal vigor and that 
God-given term — man — found true realization in 
him. 

Save his father he claimed neither a very temper- 
ate nor vigorous ancestry whose inherited virtues 
might have aided in giving him a fair start in life; 
his two brothers brought up under the same roof 
with himself were wild 1 , wayward fellows in their 
youth and exhibited even a more depraved man- 
hood. But Wayland Stewart was not a slave to cir- 
cumstances, but the master of them; not the tool 
of inexorable fate, but the architect of his own des- 
tiny. He early found within his own being charac- 
teristics of which he felt he alone was the creator. 

His father, for years an elder in the village church 
and accustomed to exhort the inhabitants of the 
little hamlet as long as many of them could remem- 
ber, cherished the wish of seeing one day a son of 
his a regularly ordained preacher of the Word. His 
hopes were early shipwrecked in regard to his two 
older sons and he therefore clung the more tena- 
ciously to the possibility of their fulfillment in his 
youngest child. It never once occurred to the elder 
that a man's true vocation is the going out of his 
whole spiritual and intellectual nature toward one 
supreme goal. 

But Wayland Stewart realized this great truth 
and had the courage to stand by his convictions. 
He deeply deplored the fact, however, that in so 


i6 


THE STEWARTS. 


doing he must give a sad blow to his father’s hopes; 
but he was persuaded that the Almighty could do 
better with his few chosen ones than with millions 
of uncalled. 

Much to the chagrin, then, of the old man, the 
son refused to concur in his father’s plans for him; 
instead he set his face resolutely toward the plow, 
for 'he felt that husbandry was no whit less noble 
in its purposes and results than the ministry, and 
that man alone could debase such endeavor. 

“Wayland,” the elder said solemnly, after receiv- 
ing his son’s ultimatum, “you have crushed my 
dearest hopes!” And the son’s reply had been 
given with characteristic firmness : 

“It seems to me, father, that your wishes should 
have very little weight in so momentous a question 
as my life’s work. If the Lord had desired me for 
the ministry, I have not lived so far away from Him 
that I could not hear His message to me.” So 
Wayland Stewart turned eagerly to his chosen work 
and because he loved it he succeeded in his under- 
taking. 

In a few years he felt amply able to have a home 
of his own and he chose, to share it with him, a 
sweet, sensible, village girl. She had just finished 
her seminary course, and though stirred by ardent 
hopes and filled with noble aspirations, Katherine 
Fowler did not feel that their realization would be 
out of the question should she become a farmer’s 
wife. 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


17 


Katherine and her sister Fanny were orphans 
and for years they had made their home with their 
bachelor uncle, Hiram Littleton. He was well 
pleased at Katherine’s marriage with the young 
farmer, gave her his blessing, and by way of more 
substantial evidence of his appreciation of his favor- 
ite niece, a gift of one thousand dollars. 

Elder Stewart had died a year before and the 
young man no longer felt it a duty to remain in his 
native town. So after the marriage the young peo- 
ple with their combined worldly possessions and 
with the natural gifts of fine constitutions and good 
brains, went to Ohio, bought a farm and began 
married life. 

The two were industrious and economical and the 
young husband added to these virtues, on his own 
account, a good share of commercial cleverness. 
In time he became one of the wealthiest farmers 
throughout the region. 

Wayland Stewart and his wife never for an in- 
stant cast aside the refinements of domestic life 
which they brought with them from their Eastern 
home. They became promoters of a system of 
social and aesthetic life which, though but seldom 
imitated, was always secretly admired, and the cus- 
tomary boorishness of farm-life never obtruded it- 
self at Clover Farm. 

One child — a daughter — came to bless the home. 
They named her Pearl, as a reminder, perhaps, of 
the infinite preciousness of their gift, and she grew 


i8 


THE STEWARTS 


up a perfect type of true American girlhood. She 
was independent in thought, though always consid- 
erate of the feelings of others. She was impulsive 
by nature, perhaps, yet willing to be guided by ma- 
turer judgment than her own. Indeed, she was a 
harmony, not of like, but of diverse elements, which 
combination is ever the producer of the broad- 
minded and charitable. 

When the girl was fifteen her mother died. It 
was the first great shadow to fall across her young 
life, but she bore it nobly, and in the five years that 
had elapsed since then she had done her best to fill 
the vacant place. 

At present the little household was augmented 
by a stepson of Way land Stewart’s only sister — 
Phillip Vail. The young man had come for the 
double purpose of regaining lost health and of 
earning sufficient money to complete his medical 
studies. 

The family at Clover Farm were, take it all in all, 
a very happy one, perhaps the happiest in Clover- 
dale, and culture, unselfishness and a competency 
had made it so. 


CHAPTER. II. 


BEECHDALE. 

EECHDALE is an aristocratic suburb 
of Leyton. Thirty years before, some 
of the prosperous citizens of that city 
bought, for a mere song, large tracts 
of land, lying then outside the corpora- 
tion line, and there they built for them- 
selves handsome and commodious 
homes. Removed thus from the tur- 
moil of an ambitious commercial cen- 
tre, Beechdale became in time, as a consequence of 
its very isolation, a well-known and most conserva- 
tive rural settlement. 

Its wide, unrailed streets which had never yet 
echoed to the distracting noise of traffic, were 
shaded by rows of stately elm and beech trees that 
met and mingled their gracious shade far down the 
long and imposing avenues. The broad and gently- 
sloping lawns, whose green was but seldom dotted 
by shrub or flower, seemed in harmony with the 
majestic beauty and undisturbed tranquility of the 
place. Here and there, high up upon some knoll, 
arose the palatial residences of the Beechdale aris- 
tocracy. 

The outskirts of these exclusive domains had, 
however, during the last few years, been invaded 



20 


BEECHDALE 


by a slightly different social element, but strange 
to say, the intruders never seemed to comprehend 
the incongruity of their position. Doubtless they 
had never even, for a moment, questioned the pro- 
priety of taking up their abode within the sacred 
precincts of Beechdale. Notwithstanding, however, 
some pretty strong denunciatory remarks concern- 
ing such presumption, the newcomers maintained 
their ground, and the good people of Beechdale 
were obliged to undergo the humiliating ordeal of 
seeing portions of thei'r fair slopes colonized by 
those outside the pale of high social rank. The 
disastrous result was that although an opportunity 
was afforded for those in moderate circumstances 
to enjoy the quiet of rural life a lowering of Beech- 
dale society was imminent. 

Beechdale realized the hopelessness of materially 
altering the present unfortunate condition of affairs, 
but she could and did most effectually show the 
plebeian influx that, though admitted within her 
princely confines, there was, unseen, a veritable 
Chinese wall of social prejudice and inherited pride 
that could not be broken down nor scaled. En- 
trance here could be effected only after a most rig- 
orous investigation regarding the applicant’s pre- 
vious rank in society, his financial standing and 
(provident regard for the future reputation of 
Beechdale!) the social status of his ancestry like- 
wise. 

By the establishment of this wisely-formulated 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


21 


social code immigration to Beechdale, if not prohib- 
ited, was in a measure, at least, restricted. Those 
who did succeed, after a long term of probation, in 
gaining entrance among the elect, felt saved as by 
fire and counted themselves under everlasting obli- 
gations to the powers that were for such salvation. 

Mrs. Frances Lansdowne, widow, found a place 
in this category. She could not claim the honor of 
being one of the charter members of the Beechdale 
contingent, but she was — O, felicitous chance — con- 
nected with one of those influential constituents, 
being a sister-in-law of Frederick William Lans- 
downe, President of the National Sugar Trust Com- 
pany, and the wealthiest resident of Beechdale. 

Mrs. Lansdowne had been a widow for six years. 
Her husband, Archibald, and Frederick William 
Lansdowne, had always been the most devoted of 
brothers, and after Archibald’s death at Leyton, his 
brother manifested the deepest concern and strong- 
est affection toward the bereaved family. 

Only four years previous to Mr. Lansdowne’s 
death the family had moved from their Vermont 
home to Leyton, for Mrs. Lansdowne (formerly 
Fanny Fowler) had, until the marriage of her uncle, 
Hiram Littleton, deemed it a matter of policy to re- 
main near the old man. After Katherine and her 
husband, Wayland Stewart, went to Ohio, she 
seemed in time to be almost forgotten by her rela- 
tive. When Fanny’s little children began to play 
about his knee the young mother thought she de- 


22 


BEECHDALE 


tected a new affection springing up in his heart 
which, if carefully fostered, through her efforts, 
might result in making her little darlings heirs to his 
property. 

But truly “there is many a slip ’twixt the cup and 
the lip.” Fanny Lansdowne found her well-laid 
plans frustrated by one fell blow, and doubtless the 
very means which she had so assiduously been em- 
ploying to further her interests were the origin of 
their defeat. 

Hiram Littleton, although, as every one sup- 
posed, a confirmed bachelor, became so enamored 
with the sweet prattle of his little grand-nieces that 
he began to dream of the joys he had lost in the 
years gone by. He concluded that it was not yet 
too late to retrieve the past and to raise up heirs of 
his own to the Littleton acres. But he was a shy 
old man and took no one into his confidence except 
a young country lass who lived on one of his farms 
some thirty miles distant. The village and Fanny 
Lansdowne received a most decided surprise one 
bright, sunshiny June morning when Hiram Little- 
ton drove up to his door and gallantly assisted his 
girl-wife to alight, his face as radiantly happy as if 
time had gone back fifty years and he was a gay 
young lover of twenty. 

But Fanny Lansdowne was not a woman accus- 
tomed to sit down in the ashes and pine. For such 
as she, extremity meant increased rather than dimin- 
ished brain activity. Her thoughts began instantly 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


23 


to turn to her husband’s only brother, Frederick 
William Lansdowne, one of the wealthiest men in 
his state. She was in no haste to make a move, 
however, until she was assured all hope was over. 

But the improbable in Fanny Lansdowne’s case 
did not come to pass. On the contrary, instead of 
no heirs, there was, in the course of a year, a bounc- 
ing pair of twins. Mrs. Littleton showed no signs 
of premature decay, and her husband, so far from 
tiring of his matrimonial venture, was, if possible, 
more enamoured of it than ever. Then it was that 
Mrs. Lansdowne , looking at her defrauded off- 
spring — four little girls, who, before long, would be 
verging on young womanhood — decided that some- 
thing must be done. A country village was a poor 
place for girls who had any ambition to “get on” in 
the world, and she concluded that it would be far 
better for their future prospects to go where they 
might be known as the nieces and become identified 
with the fortunes of Mr. William Frederick Lans- 
downe, President of the National Sugar Trust Com- 
pany. 

At last, after not a little diplomacy on her part, 
many tears and protestations (for Archibald Lans- 
downe seemed strangely unmindful of his children’s 
interests) his wife prevailed upon him to write his 
brother and enquire as to prospects of a position at 
Leyton. 

A week had hardly passed when the answer came. 
With a little quicker beating of the heart Archibald 


24 


BEECHDALE 


opened the letter to read therein a most kind and 
hearty business offer. Archibald Lansdowne did 
not say very much, but he was a quiet, undemon- 
strative man, and his reticence did not necessarily 
argue lack of appreciation on his part. 

After a decision was reached it did not take long 
to prepare for setting out to their new home. Mrs. 
Lansdowne was anxious to try a new field of opera- 
tion, and she believed implicitly that the day would 
come when her husband would gratefully attribute 
all his success in life to her clever management. 

But Archibald Lansdowne had not his brother’s 
venturesome, nor yet practical nature. Not long 
after the arrival in Leyton his heart began to hun- 
ger for the old home and associates. He longed to 
breathe the sweet New England air, redolent with 
its pungent odors from the forest, to see around 
him the old familiar faces. He was as a ship on the 
turbulent sea that has lost its rudder; as a tree 
cruelly torn from its native soil to be transplanted 
in a foreign clime. 

For several years, however, Archibald Lansdowne 
bore the burden of life, though in a listless sort of 
way, and then gave up the struggle. The physicians 
said the climate did not agree with him, and that as 
soon as he was able he must return, for a time, at 
least, to his native hills. But it was not to be, and 
he breathed out his troubled life in an alien state. 

If Mrs. Lansdowne ever blamed herself for her 
husband’s death none ever heard a hint of it; but, 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


25 


indeed, why should she? She had her children’s 
future at heart and had she not done what any 
prudent mother must have done? If their father 
could have been satisfied to see his daughters grow 
up around him without prospects, and 'living more 
than likely to be old maids, every one of them, she 
was not the mother to neglect their interests. She 
seemed to feel his loss deeply, however, for she shed 
a great many tears in public, and for all anybody 
could prove, an equal number in private. But soon 
— wise little woman that she was — she brushed 
these signs from her face and tried to find in the 
dark sky some tiny specks of blue. 

Frederick Lansdowne’s heart was deeply 
wounded at the loss of his brother, and he could 
not do enough for the little family so suddenly be- 
reft. He took the money which came to Fanny as 
life insurance and invested it so well that Mrs. Lans- 
downe soon found her income decidedly increasing. 
Mr. Lansdowne’s wife, too, was a kind-hearted 
woman and had no objection to having her husband 
do all in his power for his brother’s widow, and as 
the couple had but one child, then married and liv- 
ing abroad, Mrs. Frances Lansdowne’s children be- 
came once more the recipients of an uncle’s affec- 
tion, and this time it did not seem destined to be 
so ruthlessly taken from them. 

When the Lansdownes had first come West they 
had resided in Leyton, but after her husband’s death 
the lonely widow felt that she needed the consola- 


26 


BEECHDALE 


tion and companionship of her husband’s relatives. 
She readily acquiesced, therefore, in her brother-in- 
law’s desire for the family to move to Beechdale 
where he might keep a constant watch over the 
shepherdless little flock; and so it was that Mrs. 
Lansdowne found herself by and by occupying an 
enviable position in Beechdale society. From the 
beginning she had determined to be grafted on the 
Lansdowne tree, and when Mrs. Frances Lans- 
downe decided upon a line of action she seldom 
failed in its accomplishment. Now, after nearly ten 
years, she felt that she had attained to a success far 
beyond her most sanguine expectations. 


CHAPTER III. 


BREAKFAST TALK. 

RS. FRANCES LANSDOWNE sat 
alone in her breakfast-room,. It was her 
custom to linger there a half-hour or 
so after the morning repast. It was a 
mark of gentility to take a little leisure 
at this time and argued the absence of 
any vulgar haste in the duties of the 
morning. Her own self-respect was 
deepened by this little conventionality 
and the practice had, she thought, a good moral 
effect on the servants. 

The morning paper was always brought to her 
at the table. She liked to glance at the head-lines 
while the meal was being served; later she gave a 
less hurried perusal of its contents. She was em- 
ployed now in this second examination of the . 
Morning Herald. She had gotten, however, only 
as far as “Society Gossip,” and there Mrs. Lans- 
downe had paused. Possibly the interest of a num- 
ber of persons beside herself on this identical morn- 
ing had been arrested at the same point. There 
was just one particular item therein which savored, 
at least for Beechdalians, of a possible) bit of scan- 
dal. The item in question read as follows: 

“The rumor concerning the marriage at Heidel- 



28 


BREAKFAST TALK 


berg of Major Dearborne with Fraulein Gertzen 
of local theatrical fame, has been confirmed The 
ceremony took place June sixteenth and it is said 
the Major will bring his bride to Beechdale early 
in the fall. He has given up his bachelor quarters 
at the 'Blue Blood Club’ and will occupy, on his 
return, the old Glover homestead on Linden Ave- 
nue.” 

Now Major Dearborne had been a veritable bone 
of contention in Beechdale society for many years. 
Aspiring mothers had repeatedly set their social 
traps, but this particular species of the genus, homo 
had been too wary to be caught and at last the 
zealous, doting parents had been forced one by one 
to give over their fruitless attempts. Yet “hope 
springs eternal in the human breast / 7 and those 
who had eligible daughters felt once more as they 
read of the Major 7 s marriage the death pangs of a 
hope which they had thought long since crushed 
to earth. 

Rumor had associated the Major's name and 
that of the Fraulein's for several years. The ma- 
jority of people, however, considered it a temporary 
bewitchment on the Major's part or a sly little jeu 
(T amour. The wildest flights of conjecture as to 
the end had never brought them to the awful con- 
clusion that the Major would so lose his head 1 , so 
dishonor the family escutcheon as to actually con- 
tract a misalliance so indisputable. Yet now that 
very thing had come to pass and society had re- 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


29 


ceived in consequence a shock almost fatal to its 
hypersensitive organism. Whether it would be 
able to recuperate was as yet a calculation entirely 
beyond the power of any to conjecture. 

Mrs. Lansdowne arose from her chair and with 
the Morning Herald held tightly in her jeweled 
hand, walked with quick step into the library. There, 
taking a small pair of silver scissors which hung 
above her desk, she cut from the column' the little 
item of social news, pregnant with interest to so 
many. What a harmless bit of print it seemed, yet 
it possessed the spark that could bring about a 
mighty conflagration. 

When Mrs. Lansdowne had finished, she took 
pen and paper and prepared to write to her dear 
friend Mrs. Chatterton, to whom she had been ow- 
ing a letter for at least three days. The sense of 
duty suddenly weighed heavily upon her. She 
would write this very morning. She might, too, 
just as well enclose the little clipping. Mrs. Chat- 
terton would be interested in it, no doubt; so would 
her two daughters, Phoebe and Sara. A little 
malicious smile now and then darted furtively from 
her blue eyes as she proceeded with her friendly 
bit of correspondence. 

She ,felt highly honored in being able to write a 
familiar letter to Mrs. Chatterton, one of the social 
leaders of Beechdale. It invariably sent strange 
little thrills down her spinal column whenever she 
had the opportunity of informing some of her 


30 


BREAKFAST TALK 


friends, less favored than herself, that she had just 
heard from “dear” Mrs. Chatterton. 

Mrs. Lansdowne was a rather careless woman 
about her letters and papers. It was one of her 
very few faults. She always meant to have every- 
thing in its place, but often her good intentions 
fell short of the reality. When, therefore, she went 
to put her hand on Mrs. Chatterton’s last letter to 
read it over, it was not there; nor could she find it 
in the pigeon hole where she kept all her unan- 
swered correspondence. Becoming impatient, a 
natural consequence when a thing is not found 
where it should be, she began to open drawers and 
investigate compartments promiscuously. In her 
rummaging she came, by chance, upon a letter 
which, as it fell from the papers in her hand, slid 
from its half-torn envelope. She started as though 
it had been something alive. Her eyes fell upon 
the closing paragraph. She read it mechanically : 

“'Will you, for you are not far away, keep a 
watch-care over my motherless child when I am 
gone? I leave her with the utmost trust and con- 
tentment to her father’s protection and love,- but 
there will soon come a time in her life in which 
you, Fanny, a woman, may more truly supply to 
her a mother’s place. 

“My greatest wish for her is that she grow up 
to be a perfectly rounded woman, and to attain 
such result she must come in contact with all that 
is highest and best both socially and intellectually. 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


3i 


You know what I mean by ‘noblest and best/ and 
that I would lament equally deficiency or abnormity 
in her intellectual, moral or spiritual nature. 

“This is your trust, and may God, whose instru- 
ments we all are, guide and help you to carry out 
His highest designs for my dlarling Pearl. 

Your affectionate sister, 

“KATHERINE STEWART.” 

Often it happens, in the midst of life’s duties, one 
is called, inexplicably to one’s self, to pause; to 
come suddenly face to face with the past. After 
that brief, almost momentary glance when the at- 
tempt is made to readjust one’s self to the present, 
it is found that in the interval life’s course has been 
strangely changed. So Mrs. Lansdowne, after 
reading these few lines, when she turned again to 
search for the missing letter, found, somehow, that 
her recent interest in it had suddenly abated 1 . Un- 
consciously to herself, fate had veered her in an- 
other direction. 

Viewing her past, she had beheld there the ghost- 
ly form of neglected duty issuing from the grave of 
her own selfishness, and summoned forth as it were, 
by the words of a dead! sister’s letter. Perhaps 
never before had she so nearly entered the pene- 
tralia of her own nature. It was not an experi- 
ence “devoutly to be wished.” 

She knew that she had proved unfaithful to her 
sister’s charge. Several times in these last five 
years she had written her niece letters filled with 


32 


BREAKFAST TALK 


advice, the best of the kind she had to dlraw upon 
at short notice; but during this period her mater- 
nal duties had been so arduous and exacting that 
though she had often planned a little visit to Clover- 
dale, such a plan had 1 never been carried out, and 
she had not seen the girl since her mother’s death. 

Mrs. Lansdowne was a woman to act quickly 
and decisively. She seldom failed to rise to the 
exigencies of the moment. Acknowledging to her- 
self, therefore, that she had neglected a sacred duty 
entrusted to her, she forthwith set out to regain 
her point of moral divergence by a path which she 
felt sure would lead back to it. 

An hour later found Mrs. Frances Lansdowne 
finishing a long, motherly letter to her niece, and 
contained in it was a most urgent and doubtless, 
for the time at least, sincere invitation for her to 
spend the coming winter at Beechdale. She wrote 
that she would expect her soon after the return of 
herself and family from their summer outing. This 
would probably be the last of September. 

The letter finished and posted, Mrs. Lansdowne 
heaved a sigh of relief. She congratulated herself 
upon the fact that in so short a time she had re- 
trieved the past. 


CHAPTER IV. 


A SOCIAL DILEMMA, 

HOUGH Mrs. Lansdowne, after the in- 
vitation was given to her niece, felt 
that a great weight had fallen from her 
shoulders, she concluded later that the 
arrangement might not prove satisfac- 
tory after all. 

In her alarmed and perhaps undue 
haste she had overlooked the fact that 
her three elder daughters had not been 
consulted in regard to the step she had taken. Not 
until too late did she begin to figure on their pos- 
sible opposition;. At present they were, visiting 
school friends in Detroit, and Mr si. Lansdowne 
awaited their return in great trepidation. 

She made use of the interim by conducting count- 
less imaginary conversations with her daughters in 
regard to that fatal invitation sent to her niece. 
Mrs. Lansdowne invariably came out victorious in 
these little fancied controversies and effectually si- 
lenced all objections by her superior logic. She 
planned it all so that the vital topic might be 
brought about naturally and at the same time fa- 
vorably to her own interests. But plans are but 
seldom realized except in dreams. Ini this case the 
bomb exploded rather prematurely, and Mrs. Lans- 



34 


A SOCIAL DILEMMA 


downe was precipitated in the very midst of af- 
fairs. “O, mamma/’ cried Katheryn, before she 
and her sisters had been in the house five minutes, 
“what do you think Aline and Florence are plan- 
ning? A house-party! Isn't that glorious? It is 
to be given about the middle of October. They 
want us to be on hand without fail. Aline says 
they couldn't possibly get along without us.** 

“And their house is just perfect for such an af- 
fair," added Elinor, excitedly. “The dearest little 
nooks and corners all over. They are going to 
give a proposal party, too, during the time. Though 
it will all be in fun, I shouldn’t wonder if some real 
serious things came of it. Aline said' she wagered 
a five-pound box of Huyler's chocolates that we 
three would come home engaged.’' 

“And we were treated so beautifully," chimed 
in Yzabel. “All we had to do, you know, was just 
to say, in off-hand way, that we were the nieces of 
Mr. Frederick William Lansdowne and everyone 
was immediately prostrate. Of course, we may go, 
may we not, mamma?" 

Mrs. Lansdowne, suddenly appealed to, turned 
a trifle red, cleared her throat, and hesitated. Her 
daughters took immediate alarm. 

“O, mamma, you don’t intend to refuse! What 
a disappointment! Why, we told her we would 
accept! O, dear!" came in little horrified gasps. 

But Mrs. Lansdowne had gotten her own pow- 
ers of speech somewhat under control during these 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


35 


vocal explosions of her three daughters, and replied 
rationally but with certain strained calmness in her 
tones : 

“Girls, I have invited your cousin Pearl to spend 
some time with us and I have asked her to be here 
early in October. It would look rather rude to go 
off when she had just come, and it would hardly do 
to take her with you,” ventured Mrs. Lansdowne, 
falteringly. 

“Merciful heavens, perish the thought/' ex- 
claimed Katheryn with clasped hands. 

If Mrs. Lansdowne had announced the 1 fact that 
Barabaghansi of India or Iteweki Helelube of Ha- 
waii had been invited to her home there would have 
been doubtless a chorus of approvals, but — a cousin 
from the country! This was gall and 1 wormwood 
to their aesthetic natures. 

“O, mamma, what on earth made you do such a 
wild thing as that?” gasped Yzabel. “Have you 
lost your senses entirely ?" 

Mrs. Lansdowne could not take with equanimity 
this slur cast upon her mental capacity. It was 
time, she saw, to exert herself and explain her ac- 
tions. She must not acknowledge the charge of 
weakness in the matter, so she proceeded at once 
with a little speech — really impromptu, by the way 
— in order to apprise her excited daughters of the 
seemingly providential circumstances which had 
ltd to her unprecedented act. 

It was a difficult matter, however, to convince 


36 


A SOCIAL DILEMMA 


them of the justness or necessity of ! her action 
when she was unable to place them in the same cir- 
cumstances that had impelled her to do what she 
did. A dead sister’s letter and a niece’s claims to 
her interest naturally in no way appealed to them. 
They could see nothing but the overwhelming dis- 
grace that awaited. 

Kathervn was the eldest of Mrs. Lansdowne’s 
daughters and was considered to have inherited 
her mother’s polemic powers. The need of an im- 
mediate coup d’etat, if the day were to be gained 
was evident. The sisters turned instinctively to 
Kathervn to take the initiative and she responded. 

“Now, mamma,” she began, with a confidential 
little smile in her eyes and a tone as unruffled as if 
the recent domestic whirlwind had been but a 
playful zephyr, “you surely have not forgotten why 
Pearl has never been invited to visit us before. 
You know we have always felt that we owed some 
consideration to Uncle William and Aunt Clarissa. 
When they were kind enough to take us under 
their wing we did not think it fair to ask them to 
identify themselves with all our country relations. 
If the connection with Uncle William were on your 
side, mamma, it might be a little different.’’ 

Mrs. Lansdowne recognized at once that her 
daughter’s reasoning was unassailable. As far 
back as she could recollect, certainly as far back 
as when she was obliged to become the rudder of 
the domestic bark, she had never been in such a 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


37 


dilemma. “Well, Katheryn,” she said in a tone 
which betrayed none of the uncertainty that was in 
her heart, “in one way, perhaps, I have taken an 
imprudent step, or at least what appears as such,” 
she added, cautiously. “What I did, however, was 
done entirely from a high sense of duty. I have 
very little apprehension,” she went on, encourag- 
ingly, “that my invitation will result in an accept- 
ance, for I hardly think that your Uncle Wayland 
will allow his only child to spend so long a time 
from home among those who might be virtually 
considered strangers to her. I will take care that 
a second entreaty is not added. 

“But you are all under a decidedly wrong impres- 
sion if you think that your cousin’s coming would 
result in humiliation to us. No sister of mine, 
rest assured, would ever have brought up her 
daughter in such a way that her actions would dis- 
grace herself or others. Katherine was, of course, 
a farmer’s wife, and her daughter has been reared 
on a farm; there might be a few little points — it 
would not be strange if such were the case — where- 
in she would have to be instructed. Beyond that 
I think you have no need to be fearful.” 

Mrs. Lansdowne had hardly finished her well- 
put reply to Katheryn’s argument when a noisy, 
bounding step was heard in the hall. In a moment 
the youngest daughter of the house, a girl of fifteen, 
came rushing, with boisterous salutations, into the 


38 


A SOCIAL DILEMMA 


room where the other members of the family had 
been conversing. 

When she heard Maud’s approach Mrs. Lans- 
downe cautioned her daughters to be silent upon 
their recent topic of conversation. It was hardly 
essential that the whole of Beechdale should be 
made confidantes of their family affairs, and un- 
doubtedly such would be the result were their 
young sister to become cognizant of how matters 
stood. So, after Maud had greeted her sisters and 
had asked in one breath quite as many questions as 
it would take an hour to answer, they all retired 
in a seemingly placid frame of mind to the library 
below, where cake and chartreuse were served to 
refresh the weary travelers. 


CHAPTER V. 


GETTING UP IN LIFE. 

RS. LANSDOWNE had three daugh- 
ters eligible for matrimony and it was 
incumbent uponj her, as a mother 
whose eyes were ever open to their in- 
terests, to spend the outing months 
where her children might be best ap- 
preciated. The two weeks following 
their return, therefore, were filled with 
all the bustle of preparation consequent 
upon the anticipation of a summer trip. 

For several years the family had been the guests 
of Mr. and Mrs. Frederick William Lansdowne at 
their summer home on the Hudson. This season, 
however, Mr. and Mrs. Lansdowne had, unfortu- 
nately for their relatives, decided to visit their 
daughter, wife of the English Consul to Berlin. 
They had grown a little weary of viewing the same 
scenes year after year and had concluded to lease 
their magnificent villa to Mr. Jacob Le Monde, the 
vice-president of the National Sugar Trust Co. 

Only ten years before Jake Lemmon had opened 
a dingy little ten-by-twelve room in Trenton, N. J., 
where he sold sugar and eggs and glue on com- 
mission. Those were dark days for Jake, but 
everybody did not know about them, thank heav- 



40 


GETTING UP IN LIFE 


en! Now he was Mr. Jacob Le Monde of New 
York City, and he had almost forgotten that igno- 
minious past himself. He had money now, shoals 
of it, and he had 1 daughters ; a home on the Hudson 
wasn’t a bad move if one wanted to get on familiar 
terms with some of the nabobs of New York City. 

Thus it happened that Mrs. Frances Lansdowne 
was left to decide for herself upon the all-important 
question of a summer retreat, and it was not an easy 
problem to solve. One had to consider so many 
things. Of course it made very little difference to 
her where she went, dear, unselfish, little woman. 
She only lived for her children's happiness since 
her great bereavement. Indeed, she often told her 
friends that a quiet little spot in the country would 
be entirely satisfactory to her; but of course the 
dear children were young and youth needed change 
and excitement, so, after a good deal of consulting 
both within and beyond the family circle, Mrs. 
Lansdowne determined at last to take advantage 
of an opening brought about through her friend, 
Mrs. Judge Chatterton. Mrs. Chatterton also had 
concluded to let her cottage — a small one at Bar 
Harbor. She had offered the privilege of taking 
it to Mrs. Frances Lansdowne. 

Mrs. Lansdowne was delighted; first, because 
the place seemed to offer just) the favoring 1 condi- 
tions she was looking for, and secondly, because she 
felt herself honored in being the first of Mrs. Chat- 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


4i 


terton’s friends to be invited to occupy Windhurst 
Cottage. 

Mrs. Chatterton was, perhaps, aware of Mrs. 
Lansdowne’s admiration for herself, and it mignt 
be was influenced by the knowledge of such pre- 
delection when desirous of renting her summer 
home. However, Mrs. Chatterton’s motives are of 
no particular interest. The result is more to the 
point, and the result was just this, that a few days 
later a gushing little note was received by her from 
Mrs. Lansdowne, and it contained an acceptance of 
Mrs. Chatterton’s proposal. 

The middle of July was nearly at hand and 
Beechdale was experiencing its usual exodus. Those 
who could afford to go, went; but those who could 
not afford it — went, also. To be able to endure, 
without serious results the climate of an inland city, 
though away from its bustle and roar, argued a 
degenerate nervous organism, to say the least. Af- 
ter the gayeties of a brilliant winter tired human 
nature demanded a rest. Society’s edict demanded 
it and physicians advised it. 

It was a time of sifting for Beechdale, a veritable 
separation of the sheep from the goats. If any had 
by strategy crept into the fold', had, as it were, been 
warmed and fed in the arms of society during the 
frosts of winter, the warm breezes of summer would 
bring a rude awakening. The sheep would 
hear the voice of the shepherd calling to pastures 
fair and far and the goats would resign themselves 


42 


GETTING UP IN LIFE . 


to the disgraceful alternative of being left behind 
to nibble on what was left. 

It had been whispered, and somewhat loudly too, 
that Jack Folger’ s wife — poor Jack was at his wits’ 
end living at Beechdale, people said — owed a three 
hundred dollar bill to, the modiste when she went 
away last year; but Mrs. Folger had now arrived at 
that critical point where she could not bear up 
under the torrid suns of Beechdale and Madame 
Renaud, the modiste could, as had been well ex- 
emplified. 

Mrs. Folger, by the way, was becoming quite 
closely identified with Beechdale, so she thought. 
She congratulated herself on the fact and began to 
feel a very tender regard springing up in her heart 
for the Beechdalian aristocracy. Indeed, she felt 
she really could not go away this summer without 
saying an revoir to a few of her dear acquaintances. 
So it came about that one oppressive July after- 
noon Mrs. Lansdowne’s maid carried up stairs 
cards which bore the name of Mrs. John Folger. 
Mrs. Lansdowne and her two elder daughters were 
seated together discussing the final arrangements 
in regard to Bar Harbor. 

Mrs. Lansdowne was annoyed at the interruption. 
Mrs. Folger was not a person with whom she con- 
sidered it an advantage to be intimate. Indeed, as 
it seemed to her, the advantage was altogether on 
Mrs. Folger’s side. About all the claim that person 
had to recognition in Beechdale was that she kept 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


43 


a cook, gave 'handsome euchre parties and went 
away for the summer. But notwithstanding all this, 
she had not been given much attention until some 
months since, when her dashing brother, Frank 
Boskin, had put in an appearance. 

Though Beechdale did not know it, this was 
really Mrs. Folger ’s last play; but hearts were 
trumps and she won. Soon that lady found her- 
self the center of attraction and doting mammas 
and desperate daughters suddenly made the discov- 
ery that Mrs. Folger was really quite nice and her 
brother just too> sweet to live. Still Beechdale 
looked somewhat askance at Mrs. Folger and could 
not yet be persuaded to take her to its sensitve and 
immaculate bosom. Mrs. Folger occupied at pres- 
ent a sort of probationary position in Beechdale 
society, and she meant to take advantage of it while 
it was hers, so she made the venture to call on Mrs. 
Frances! Lansdowne. 

After a half hour or so Mrs. Folger, fuming away 
in the library, gave a sigh of relief to hear the 
slight flutter of women's robes on the stairway. In 
a moment Mrs. Lansdowne and Katheryn walked 
in with a sort of genteel wilted air about them, to 
greet their plebeian visitor. 

“How brave of you, Mrs. Folger, to venture out 
such an oppressive day! How strong your nerves 
must be! I was just saying to Katheryn a moment 
ago I did wish we had' the constitutions of some 
people.’* 


44 


GETTING UP IN LIFE 


Mrs. Folger flushed at the imputation. She was 
fearful that she had unwittingly committed a 
breach of etiquette which would not lift her in the 
estimation of her hostess. 

Mrs. Folger was not a woman quick to meet an 
opponent. She was nonplussed and rather hazy as 
to how to reply to this novel salutation. She con- 
cluded to let the cutting remark go by unnoticed, 
and she said quite sweetly and with a little forced 
smile : 

“Oh, I am so sorry to have disturbed you if you 
were not feeling well. I presume you were lying 
down.” 

“No, no, ,? replied Mrs. Lansdowne, reassuringly. 
“I am feeling as well as usual. I am always com- 
pletely wilted as soon as the warm weather sets in 
and my children, poor dears, are just like me. Dr. 
Winthrop said our nervous systems are so exceed- 
ingly high-strung that we are especially susceptible 
to every climatic change. Yzabel and Elinoir are 
feeling it this year more than the rest, I believe. 
Yzabel asked me to excuse her, by the way; she is 
so fatigued this afternoon. You see we are about 
two weeks late in getting away this summer and we 
are all suffering from it. I am anxious to go just 
as soon as possible now. Perhaps you have seen 
by the paper — what inveterate gossipers those re- 
porters are, by the way — that we are to take Mrs. 
Judge Chatterton’s cottage this season.” Mrs. 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


45 


Folger nodded assent and her hostess went on lan 
guidly: 

“It will be a delightful change for the girls. T 
want Elinoir to get quite strong during the sum- 
mer, too, that she may be able to go through with 
that most trying ordeal of 'coming out’ in society. 
It is a trial for a young girl, I think.” 

Mrs. Lansdowne paused and concluded to give 
her visitor a slight chance to make a remark on 
her own account. She leaned her head against the 
satin rest on her chair and let her jewelled hands lie 
in indolent repose in her lap. But as Mrs. Folger 
did not seem inclined to take advantage of the 
opportunity Katheryn concluded to exert her con- 
versational powers by a slight inquiry. 

“Where are you going this summer, Mrs. 
Folger?” 

Mrs. Folger brightened. She could at last meet 
her friends on common ground. 

“I expect to go to the seashore, too. Jack is 
anxious for me to go. The salt air agrees with me, 
Jack thinks.” 

Mrs. Folger always would manifest her plebeian 
breeding by alluding to her husband as “Jack.” It 
sent a nervous little thrill of horror all through Mrs. 
Lansdowne and Katheryn. 

“At what point do you think of locating?” ques- 
tioned Mrs. Lansdowne. 

Ti Atlantic City! We have been there before and 
like it so much!” rattled Mrs. Folger airily. 


4 6 


GETTING UP IN LIFE 


“Oh!” Mrs. Lansdowne could not for the life of 
her have refrained from expressing a certain well 
bred contempt in that little monosyllabic utterance. 
Mrs. Folger’s quick ear caught the jarring note and 
she was discomfited. 

“Have you ever been there?” she asked ner- 
vously. 

“No, I never have in the summer. They say the 
place is quite exciting then, but they have — well, 
you know they have so many people there! Un- 
doubtedly some very nice persons go (patroniz- 
ingly). One is apt, though, to be thrown with such 
a mixed crowd on account of the cheap rates. 
Where there are so many people” — always with 
that significant emphasis on people — “there is dan- 
ger of breathing in microbes, Dr. Winthrop says.” 

M'rs. Folger repented in sackcloth and ashes, 
figuratively speaking, that she had ever thought of 
making this unfortunate call, and one was all suffi- 
cient. She would go no farther. She saw plainly, 
how plainly her throbbing heart told her, that cer- 
tainly there was a great difference yet between her- 
self and those to the manor born. She had not 
thought so before — poor, silly, little creature. She 
attempted to reply, but she did not make much out 
of it, she was sure, and then she arose to go. 

“Well, we will say ‘good-bye,’ Mrs. Folger,” said 
Mrs. Lansdowne quite sweetly. “We expect to 
start for Bar Harbor day after tomorrow.” 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


47 


“I hope you will have a pleasant summer/’ vol- 
unteered Katheryn. 

Mrs. Folger extended like compliments, and then, 
according to the best approved rules of B'eechdale 
etiquette, Mrs. Lansdowne and her daughter turned 
with a little farewell bow and retired to the library 
beyond, and left their guest tO' try with cold, nerve- 
less fingers to unlatch the door and to superintend 
her own exit. 


r 


CHAPTER VI. 


AT CLOVER FARM. 

IVE was the hour set for tea at Clover 
Farm and Janet was quite as punctual 
as the clock. When the harsh note of 
the “dinner horn” sounded out on the 
quiet air, those for whom its summons 
was intended would swear to its being 
just half after four. And when tea 
was announced the little family at 
Clover Farm knew without looking 
that the old-fashioned clock on the dining-room 
mantel was about to proclaim in clock language 
the hour for the evening meal. 

On this particular evening Philip, Pearl and her 
father sat down at the usual time, but they lingered 
longer than was their custom over the dainty re- 
past. The faithful old time-piece had tolled out its 
six strokes before they arose. 

Pearl reached for the bunch of brilliant nastur- 
tiums that adorned the centre of the snowy cloth: 

“Father,” she said, as Wayland Stewart turned to 
enter the sitting-room, “Phillip has promised to 
walk with me to Mrs. Ferris’. I want to take her 
this beautiful bunch of nasturtiums. She so loves 
flowers. Hers have amounted to very little this 
season. It does seem too bad, doesn’t it, that now 



A MODERN PATRICIAN 


49 


she is getting old and is too weak to attend to them 
herself, Amanda will not take any interest in them. 
The poor old lady was looking at them when I 
passed the other day, and she was deploring their 
wrecked appearance.” 

“O, Amanda has no eyes for the beautiful,” an- 
swered her father. “Her nature has never risen to 
that height, poor girl. Work and drudgery, to her 
synonymous terms because she makes them so, are 
all of life for her. Give my kind regards to Mrs. 
Ferris, daughter, and tell her I am glad to hear her 
rheumatism is better. Phillip, ” turning to the young 
man, “you might soon have a fine practice if Mrs. 
Ferris continues to sing your praises.” Phillip 
smiled and flushed a little with pleasure at the com- 
pliment. Pearl wiped the water from the stems of 
her fragrant treasures and then she and her cousin 
started on their errand of kindness. 

Mrs. Ferris lived only a quarter of a mile up the 
Pike and the two young people, awake to all the 
beauties of a dying October day, walked along with 
sauntering step. They lingered now and then to 
admire some distant view of gorgeous foliage glow- 
ing under the fires of an autumn sunset. 

“Look, Phillip, ” said the girl suddenly in breath- 
less admiration, “look yonder at those clouds, great 
piles of gold against the purple and blood-red ; how 
those trees blend with the coloring and what a soft 
mellow light there is all about us ! How few, how 


50 


AT CLOVER FARM 


very few artists are able to depict such beauty faith- 
fully, and I wonder why.” 

“Because,” replied Phillip, “one must see with the 
soul, as well as with the physical organ of sight. 
That is a gift that many have not developed. They 
may have the delicate touch, be perfect in the art 
of imitating what they see, but such handiwork as 
that yonder must be viewed with an inner vision. 
Nature is divine and can be comprehended only 
through that which is also divine.” Then, after a 
pause, as if communing with himself: 

“To what heights must the soul mount before it 
can behold the marvelous things.” 

“Yes,” broke in the girl passionatelv, “but men 
seem to have lost sight of that. O, Phillip, why is 
it that so many of the people, here around us, have 
so little thought of what is grand and true and beau- 
tiful. All nature is pleading with them constantlv 
and they heed no more than the dumb brutes yon- 
der. Work! Work! Work! that is the only idea 
beaten in upon their brains. To accumulate that 
which may vanish in a moment, as the sand houses ' 
of children, is what they are striving for. Why should 
not our country people develop the divinest virtues 
of human nature. They must work; it is the law of 
progress. It is only the way in which they work 
which debases them. Why, Phillip, do we drink in 
this beauty, why are we thrilled and exalted by the 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


5i 


strange, sweet music that is all about us while 
others are ignorant of it all?” 

Phillip Vail looked with reverent tenderness into 
the rapt face turned to his. He was about to answer 
when suddenly Pearl saw coming toward them, 
across the meadow of Farmer Brunt, the tall, swing- 
ing figure of a woman. 

“There is Amanda Haines now, Phillip, ” ex- 
claimed Pearl. “I suppose she is coming over to 
see Carrie Brunt. ” 

As they looked, the woman waved to them, and 
called in a loud, clear voice, “Wait a minute !” 
Phillip and Pearl crossed over from the road and 
came up to the fence separating the Brunt farm 
from the pike. 

“How are you both?” she asked bluntly with un- 
flinching but kindly glance from one to the other. 
“We are well,” answered Pearl. “Mr. Vail and I 
were just going to your house. I wanted to take 
some nasturiums to your grandmother. I hope 
she is feeling better.” 

“Well, Pm glad you’re goin’? She’ll be tickled 
to see you, especially Mr. Vail. She was tuck down 
last night with a pain in her leg and that awful 
misery in her side. That doctor at the village don’t 
know nothin’, so she just doctored herself. She’s 
doin’ right smart today. I allow if she don’t git no 
worse she’ll be around in a day or so. I left Bud 
with the baby and thought I’d stop over to see 
Carrie a few minutes. Her mother wasn’t to 


52 


AT CLOVER FARM 


meetin’ Sunday and some one told me that the 
doctor thought Carrie wouldn’t last long now.” 

“How is your baby, Mrs. Haines?” asked Phillip. 
“He is a handsome, sturdy, little fellow for his age.” 

The mother smiled for the first time — at the 
compliment, and then quickly put one hand across 
her mouth as in apology for the toothless space 
therein. 

“Oh, he’ll do,” she said, turning off with tne same 
loose gait in which she had advanced. “If he 
grows up half as good as his father, I’ll be satisfied. 
Good-bye !” 

The two stood for a moment watching her and 
then they turned silently and started more quickly 
than before up the pike. Pearl broke the silence 
first. 

“Phillip,” said she, “would anyone believe, unless 
they were told, that Amanda Haines is but twenty- 
three? Five years ago when Bud Haines was going 
to see her, she seemed to take a commendable 
pride in the way she looked and acted. Now that 
is all past. She is married and I suppose life’s con- 
summation has been reached. No wonder, Philip,” 
and a little twinkle shone in her dark eyes for a 
moment, “that people do not long for their country 
cousins to visit them!” 

A grave look came into Phillip’s face. “Have 
you decided Pearl,” he asked, “not to accept your 
aunt’s invitation to Beechdale?” 

“I had decided,” she said throwing her head 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


53 


back a little now proudly. “I felt quite sure after 
that second letter in answer to mine that she feared 
my acceptance. But now I have changed my mind 
about going. Amanda Haines tells me that I have 
a message for my aunt and her high-bred daughters. 
It is this: that the country of itself cannot debase 
any more than the city cannot in itself uplift. It 
is only we ourselves who can do either.” 

“What a charming champion of rural life, ,> ob- 
served Phillip smiling. “I wish with all my heart, 
there were more such.” 

“I will tell father tonight that I have changed 
my mind and that I am going to Aunt Frances'. 
You know he wanted very much that I should, but 
I was too proud 1 then to go.” She threw up her 
head and laughed, but there was no resentment in 
its tones to mar the sweetness. 

“And now you are too proud to stay at home. 
Is that it?” She nodded. Just then her eyes 
turned once more to the West. But one long streak 
of flaming red remained of all the recent glory. 
The shadows were already upon them. 

“Let us hasten, Phillip. It will soon be quite 
dark.” she said, pointing to the distant horizon. 
To the young man Pearl's face seemed to have 
caught and appropriated the trembling, mystic 
beauty of the sunset. “God bless her!” he cried in 
his heart. “May the evil of this world never leave 
its polluting stain upon her pure, sweet soul.” 


CHAPTER VII. 


NEWSPAPER GOSSIP- 


rs. FRANCES LANSDOWNE and 
| her daughters had returned from their 
^ A | summer outing and society had been 
duly apprised of the important event 
through the columns of the Morning 
Herald, She had dropped a few lines 
from Bar Harbor to the society edi- 
tress and inadvertently mentioned her 
expected departure for home with the 
embarrassing result that the little confidence had 
been immediately betrayed. 

Miss Burton was a person by no means suscepti- 
ble of flattery, but, to be on familiar terms with 
the Four Hundred was quite necessary to her pro- 
fession; so, though she recognized the incentive 
to the many little complimentary speeches which 
she received, she held her peace and entertained 
herself with merry little laughs behind the backs of 
those who offered them. Why should she not?. 
She was well paid for the disclosures which they 
made, all unwittingly to themselves, of their many 
vanities; and they, dear women, were more than 
rewarded when they read the little daily bulletins 
appearing constantly in society news concerning 
their movements. They congratulated themselves, 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


55 


one and all, that without revealing any real desire 
for notice they had managed to let the editress 
know just the very things they were most anxious 
to have announced; and so the bright little woman 
kept on laughing and writing and, — endorsing her 
checks. 

“Mamma,” remarked Yzabel one morning, after 
she had spent an hour’s enjoyment in perusing the 
social scrap-book, “when this morning’s notice 
about Elinoir is pasted in, it will make the twentieth 
since we went away. I wager that is more than 
Aunt Clarissa or Mrs. Chatterton have had in the 
same length of time.” 

“Mrs. Chatterton has had quite a number this 
season, my dear,” returned Mrs. Lansdowne doubt- 
fully. “I wish we had thought to count them.” 

“O, Yzabel,” exclaimed Elinoir, “do see if my 
name is spelled correctly. I think it is a positive 
shame that it is so often wrong. The ‘noir’ gives 
such a tone.” 

Yzabel looked again at the clipping she had 
just fastened in the book. 

“Yes, my much abused sister, rest contented and 
give Miss Burton a red mark, for it is comrne il 
font and looks quite well. I’ll read it to see how 
it sounds.” 

“Mrs. Lansdowne and her charming daughters 
arrived home last Wednesday after a three months’ 
stay at Bar Harbor. All of Mrs. Lansdowne’s 
daughters are fascinating and Miss Elinoir, who 


56 


NEWSPAPER GOSSIP 


takes her place in Society as one of the winter's 
buds, will, with her many accomplishments and 
charming manners, make a welcome addition to 
those who have already entered the exclusive circle 
at Beechdale.” 

“I am relieved/’ observed Elinoir, bending over 
her sister’s shoulder. “It makes my blood run cold 
to have it spelled that old-fashioned way. I am 
glad we are not having to see ourselves in print as 
Miss Kitty and Miss Bell and Miss Ella. Mamma, 
I do believe, too, if it had not been for us, we should 
still be disgraced with those horrid nicknames.” 

“And it was fortunate,” added Katheryn, “that 
we put the fancy spelling in at once. I should not 
have liked to make a second change. Yzabel, you 
have the best of it; that ‘Yz’ especially is quite 
distingue.” 

“Yes, I have never seen anyone else spell it so,” 
answered Yzabel, “though I dare say some one will 
have the audacity >to copy it. People are so imper- 
tinent.” 

“Yzabel better get her name copyrighted,” volun- 
teered Maud, who was lying on her back reading 
.the third volume of the “Flaxie Frizzle Stories.” 

“Mamma,” cried Yzabel wrathfully, “why don’t 
you make Maud quit saying such hateful things? 
She is only jealous because she can’t change her 
own.” 

“I’m not jealous!” retorted Maud defiantly. I 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


57 


can spell it with a ‘w’ instead of a ‘u.’ You said so 
yourself/' 

“Maud,” said her mother in severe tones, “you 
must be more deferential to your sisters. Remem- 
ber you are not ‘out' yet, and must keep a little more 
in the background until you are in England, where 
your great-grandfather lived. They will not tolerate 
such freedom in children/' 

Maud muttered “shoot England,” and flaunted 
angrily out of the room. As she did so she threw 
a letter into Yzabel's lap. “There’s a letter Bettv 
gave me as I came upstairs, and I forgot to hand 
it over.” 

Just whether this statement of Maud's delin- 
quency was the true one was not then questioned, 
for Yzabel recognized the handwriting with a little 
thrill of horror. “Mamma, it's from Pearl,” she 
exclaimed. “From Pearl!” gasped a chorus of 
voices. 

With nervous fingers Mrs. Lansdowne opened 
the letter and read : 

“Dear Aunt Frances: 

I had about decided to give up my visit to Beech- 
dale, as I wrote you some little time ago; but 
after considering the matter, and influenced! some- 
what by father's desire for me to have the change 
from country life, I have concluded (if I may after 
so long deliberation) to accept your kind invitation, 
and I will hope to be with you some time in the 
early part of October. 


58 


NEWSPAPER GOSSIP 


Remember me kindly to my cousins and believe 
me 

Sincerely your niece, 

Pearl Stewart. 

September 20, 1897. 

P. S. — I will write again more definitely as to 
time.” 

“I knew she would come, mamma!” burst out 
Katheryn, almost crying from sheer vexation. “We 
might just as well make up our minds now to be 
disgraced and perhaps we may become used to the 
thought by the time she arrives,” added Elinoir 
resignedly. “Haven’t you anything to say, Yzabel,” 
she asked, turning to her sister. 

“You have expressed my sentiments perfectly,” 
answered Yzabel. 'There is no special need to 
unbottle my vial of wrath. I’ll draw on it later. 
I must say, though, mamma, that our fair cousin 
makes no attempts to give expression to senti- 
ments she does not feel. Just listen!” taking the 
letter from her mother’s lap and curling her lip dis- 
dainfully: “Remember me kindly to my cousins. 
Sincerely your niece, Pearl Stewart. No love lost 
there, surely. The whole letter is about as cool an 
epistolatory specimen as one could inagine.” 

Mrs. Lansdowne heaved a sigh and arose. S'he 
did not care to pursue the subject further. 

“Well, girls, you may blame mie if you will, but my 
conscience approves my action,” said Mrs. Lans- 
downe in an injured tone and with a pathetic 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


59 


droop at the corners of the mouth which she knew 
so exceedingly well how to effect. 

“What cannot be cured must be endured 1 ,” said 
Katheryn philosopicahlly, as her mother walked 
slowly to the door, “but your conscience must have 
had a very bad attack of inflammation at that time, 
mamma, and we will have the privilege, I suppose, 
of reaping the benefits !” 

Mrs. Lansdowne sighed again in a most dejected 
way and left the room. She knew she had precipi- 
tated this domestic catastrophe and she did not feel 
equal to the strain of entering into any arguments 
concerning an act which she now felt to have been 
the one great mistake of her life. 

“She will be here in time for my ‘coming out’ 
party. What eclat it will add to the occasion,” 
remarked Elinoir derisively. “Do you suppose,” 
earnestly, “that we could possibly get her into a 
presentable condition by that time? Heavens! what 
a delight to have one’s hair stand on end every few 
moments by some disgraceful breach of etiquette 
or some rhetorical display of Cloverdale culture.” 

“She’ll have to change her name, that’s certain,” 
said Yzabel with great decision. “Pearl Stewart, 
forsooth! Why, there is everything in a name, and 
no one would think her much with that silly and 
plebeian appellation. Hand me that dictionary, 
Elinoir. Let’s look her up. P’s — yes, here it is! 
Pearl, Margaret, Margaret! That’s fine! Mar- 
garet she must be then!” 


6o 


NEWSPAPER GOSSIP 


“No! No! Yzabel” broke in Katheryn. “Let it 
be Marguerite. That’s Frenchy, you know. Per- 
haps/’ laughing, “we can trace some of her an- 
cestors back to the French.” 

“Stewart would look better spelled S-t-u-a-r-t, 
too,” suggested Yzabel. “There, it is written out! 
How does it strike you? That will help to cut some 
figure in the Herald and the Beechdale Argus, 
won’t it? Miss Marguerine Stuart of — of — ” 

“Don’t mention where, Katheryn, for heaven’s 
sake. That would be a dead give away,” interposed 
Elinoir in horrified tone. “If it should 1 come to the 
point of disclosing the paternal nest we will trump 
up some story about her father’s ill health and the 
absolute necessity of his living in the country. But 
we must be sure to give the impression that he 
merely directs the work on his farm and: — well, in 
short, that he is and always has been a gentleman 
farmer; one of the English type, I mean.” 

“Well,” remarked Katheryn complacently, “1 
think we have arranged things wonderfully well 
for so short a time. But the thing that rests most 
heavily upon me is that we have a very uncertain 
quantity to deal with in Miss Marguerite. How do 
we know but that she will be the infant terrible, and 
then — merciful stars — the disgrace!” 

“Don’t borrow trouble, Katheryn,” returned 
Yzabel. “There is no use to think of that until we 
see her; then we can size her up instanter. She 
may have to be flattered or coaxed — or commanded. 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


61 


Some one of these plans, though, will certainly be 
effectual. Let’s go and tell mamma that her daugh- 
ters are going to face the results of her hypercon- 
scientiousness with martyrlike courage and deter- 
mination.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


SOCIETY. 



AJOR DEARBORNE and his charm- 
ing bride are sojourning in the Adiron- 
dacks, they having arrived 1 in New 
York on the Hamburg- American liner, 
Graf Waldersee. They are expected in 
Beechdale in time for the fifth anniver- 
sary of the Leyton Chapter of the So- 
ciety of the Sons of the Revolution, of 
which the Major is a prominent and 


highly-respected members.” 

The above notice had appeared in the Sunday 
Herald. On Monday, the day after the receipt of 
her niece’s letter, Mrs. Lansdbwne was surprised 
and delighted to receive an invitation from her dear 
friend, Mrs. Chatterton, to a luncheon, just a small 
affair and very informal, by the way. It was really 
meant as a reunion of the French Club, after the 
separation of the last few months. That, at least, 
was what Mrs. Chatterton gave her friends to un- 
derstand. But women are suspicious individuals, 
and the invitation coming so closely on the heels of 
that little notice in the Sunday Herald , the fair re- 
cipients insisted upon a vital and intimate connec- 
tion between the two events. 

The French Club numbered only ten members, 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


63 


but these, be it understood, were the upper ten, and 
such a representative gathering at this time was 
of deep significance. 

Mrs. Lansdowne had spent an almost sleepless 
night after the little disturbance in the domestic 
circle which her tender conscience had brought 
about. She had not been able to dissipate the fore- 
bodings of an impending calamity from her mind 
until the reception of Mrs. Chatterton’s note of 
invitation. After that, however, the domestic hori- 
zon seemed to brighten. 

The breech between mother and' daughters was 
once more repaired andi the four drawn closely to- 
gether in the delightful little discussions of the 
Major’s affairs and in speculations as to what 
would be the verdict of the Beechdale jury which 
was to sit upon the Major’s case shortly; for that 
such was the ulterior purpose of the gathering 
probably no one of the ten even for a moment 
doubted. 

The invitations were for one o’clock Wednesday, 
and fifteen minutes before the hour designated a 
carriage rolled up the long gravelled path, leading 
to the Chatterton mansion. The one occupant — 
a lady — alighted. 

“Have the carriage here by four, Franklin,” she 
said with a slight imperious sweep of the hand. 
Then, seeing another carriage turn in at the same 
gate, the lady thereupon took particular care to 
manipulate her elegant grey tailor-made in such a 


64 


SOCIETY 


manner as to show to the best advantage its violet 
taffeta lining. She walked slowly up the steps — 
very slowly. Anything approaching haste would 
have evinced a most vulgar desire to be initiated 
into the mysteries beyond the great closed doors. 
As the last step was ascended the door was swung 
back by the colored butler and the newly arrived 
guest was directed to the library beyond. 

Mrs. Chatterton sat within to> all appearances 
deeply engrossed in a piece of embroidery. With 
an effective little start she arose from her chair 
as her guest entered and extended toward her a 
hand of welcome. Perhaps Mrs. Chatterton had 
been spending half the morning in that identical 
place, absorbed in the wonders of art and had but 
just realized that she was “booked” for a most in- 
formal luncheon. 

“How lovely of you to come, Mrs. Fiswick!” 
exclaimed Mrs. Chatterton! “Having just returned 
yesterday, as your husband informed me, I was 
afraid the fatigue consequent upon so long a jour- 
ney might prevent you from making one of us 
today; though I hoped, when Mr. Fiswick told you 
how very informal a gathering it was to be, you 
would decide favorably.” 

Before Mrs. Fiswick was quite through murmur- 
ing her profuse appreciation of Mrs. Chatterton’s 
invitation four other ladies joined the hostess and 
her first guest. The regulation complimentary 
speeches were passed between the new arrivals and 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


65 


their hostess and all were invited to be seated, and 
they did so with as much ease and grace as possible. 

They chatted on for a few moments until all the 
guests had arrived; then promptly at the appointed 
time they were asked to partake of a delicious 
repast. 

As it was given in honor of the French Club, it 
was quite apropos to have on the dainty souvenirs 
some brief quotation en Francaise , and the guests 
twisted their pretty mouths and puckered their pow- 
dered brows over the irritating lines which would 
not accommodate themselves to intelligible English 
in spite of all they could do. There was ever an 
incorrigible little word or two that obstinately re- 
fused to be righted; but the kind hostess, who had 
very prudently prepared herself for any such emer- 
gencies, kindly enlightened her perplexed guests. 
Monsieur Bereil should 1 certainly have been there. 
How his little fat body would have doubled itself 
up with laughter afterwards just to remember the 
linguistic attempts of the dear madames. 

For a long time there was an uninterrupted! “flow 
of reason and a feast of soul” ; then Mrs. Chatterton 
alluded to the previous Sunday’s excellent sermon 
at the church of The Holy Angels.” It has made me 
think deeply during the past week of the hold Satan 
is getting upon all classes ; even among the “haute 
naissance,” she remarked pointedly. And the ladies 
united with Mrs. Chatterton in her opinion and in- 
dorsed her French with emphatic, affirmative nods. 


66 


SOCIETY 


Then the subject of Major Dearborne’s marriage 
was broached. 

“How can we, ladies, mothers most of us,” ex- 
claimed Mrs. Chatterton dramatically, “receive into 
our midst one who has so shamelessly dishonored 
womanhood?” and nine ladies shook their nine 
heads solemnly. “I never dreamed the Major could 
so far forget himself and his honored name as to 
marry the woman,” said Mrs. Winthrop, the 
doctor’s wife. “I fear he will rue it yet. Only think 
of the lovely sweet girls he might have had — Miss 
Phoebe, Miss Sara or Miss Katheryn and a host 
of others!” 

Mrs. Winthrop could speak upon this subject 
without embarrassment, as she had neither daugh- 
ters nor nieces of her own. Mrs. Chatterton and 
Mrs. Lansdowne gave little deprecatory gestures of 
the hand as to say, “The mere thought of giving 
up our daughters gives us torture inexplicable.” 

“Is it really as scandalous as reported?” inquired 
Mrs. Fiswick in solicitous tones. 

“Pm afraid so,” replied Mrs. Chatterton. “The 
Judge, you know, had very good means of ascer- 
taining the truth. H'e heard quite directly from 
a friend who was travelling in Germany this winter 
and who met the two at Carlsruhe.” 

“What are we to do! What are we to do!” re- 
peated Mrs. Lansdowne in distressed tones. “If 
we refuse to receive her the Major will be mortally 
offended, and really — except for this mistake, the 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


6 7 


Major is such an acceptable addition to our set; al- 
ways so pleasant and of such bcl esprit .” 

“And he comes of such fine family, you know/’ 
chimed in Mrs. McKnight. “I believe he can trace 
his ancestry to Pocahontas.” The attestation of the 
Major’s claim to inherited virtues was a telling 
stroke in behalf of the accused. The Major’s case 
was gaining ground. 

“He belongs to our Chapter of the Sons of the 
Revolution, and the Judge would dislike so much 
to wound him!” broke in Mrs. Chatterton. “Of 
course,” commiseratingly, “any adverse action on 
our part would be most humiliating to him, poor 
fellow.” 

The best they would make of the case was bad 
enough. Undoubtedly the blame rested entirely on 
the vile representation of their own sex, but if she 
fell the Major would also suffer irretrievable dis- 
grace. Taking all things into consideration these 
impartial, tender-hearted women could really see 
but one course to> pursue — they must overcome 
their personal aversions because of the Major’s an- 
cestral record, and thus the refuge of the Major’s 
wife would be within the shadow of a great name. 

Not many juries would have shown such unbi- 
ased judgments — such unparalleled discretion. 
But this congress which had convened was an emi- 
nently trustworthy authority upon estimates. 


CHAPTER IX. 


MARGARET’S VISIT. 

RS. LANSDOWNE and her daughters 
had hoped almost against hope that 
something would develop to keep their 
relative from making her proposed 
visit to them. As day after day passed 
and no further word came, they had 
begun to take fresh courage, when one 
bright October morning a second note 
was received from Pearl. It was brief 
and to the point: She would be with them on the 
following day. The sword of Damocles had fallen. 

That day having arrived, Mrs. Lansd'owne but a 
few minutes since had sent her ’brother-in-law’s 
phaeton to convey their unwelcome guest from the 
station to Beechjdale. Certainly if it had been a 
funeral faces hardly more solemn would have ap- 
peared about the breakfast board that morning. 
The train was due at West Hill Station at nine 
thirty-five. If on time Pearl would be with the 
family by ten. 

Maud seemed to be the only one that manifested 
any particular interest in their guest’s arrival. She 
stood at the library window, her expectant gaze 
fixed on that point of thie road where a gentle 
ascent would bring any vehicle in view. The others 



A MODERN PATRICIAN 


69 


sat around in dull, apathetic state, making no com- 
ments and offering each other no consolation. 

“Here she is, mamma! Here she is!” screamed 
Maud. “See, that is the phaeton! Katheryn said 
she would have on calico, but she hasn't! I can 
see. I think it's blue cloth, and O! she has a hat 
to match, with red flowers like mine. She has 
gloves, too, Katheryn. She just put her hand up. 
I wonder if they're kid.” 

“Mamma,” cried Katheryn, exasperated beyond 
measure, “I wish to heaven you would stop Maud's 
mouth. Talk about our being disgraced! I think 
she will be quite equal to her cousin in humiliating 
us if she isn't locked up in a convent pretty soon.” 

“Maud,” shrieked Mrs. Lansdowne, “come away 
from there! Let me hear another word from you 
except when you are addressed, and I will see 
Father Frohmann tomorrow.” 

If there was anything that could effectually quiet 
Maud Lansdowne for a time at least, it was the 
awful possibility that her mother might some time 
Be as good as her word. That she might be shut 
in before she was “out” was a constant menace to 
future happiness. 

Maud pointed and bounced her one hundred and 
thirty pounds avoirdupois into a wicker chair near 
the window. Katheryn went over to where her 
youngest sister had been standing. 

“Yes, here she is!” she reported, craning her 
neck a little as the phaeton rolled up to the door. 


70 


MARGARETS VISIT 


Mrs. Lansdowns arose. “O, girls, I hope you will 
treat her with common decency,” she said implor- 
ingly. “Remember, she is my dead sister’s child, 
and — and — ” Mrs. Lansdowne’s feelings were get- 
ting the better of her. 

“Don’t grow sentimental, mamma!” interrupted 
Yzabel. “I do not suppose you feel any more like 
weeping than we do. It isn’t at all likely we will 
forget our manners. There’s the bell.” 

Betty, wdio was never in haste to respond to the 
bell, was on the alert this morning. The servants 
had heard enough to make the new arrival a source 
of great interest to them. Betty was eager to carry 
a description of Mrs. Lansdowne’s country relative 
to the cook; likewise she was eager for the coach- 
man’s report of the young stranger. 

Mrs. Lansdowne hushed away with her em- 
broidered handkerchief the few tears that had been 
extracted from her pale blue eyes during her recent 
agitation, then stepped to the library door to re- 
ceive her niece. 

“My dear, I am inexpressibly glad to see you 
again,” said Mrs. Lansdowne, as she extended 
her right foot an eighth of an inch beyond the en- 
trance and smiled languidly on the girl who stood 
before her. “These are your cousins, dear. This is 
Katheryn, the eldest, and Yzabel, just your age, I 
believe, and Elinoir, who expects to be 'out’ this 
winter, and Maud — Maud', come here, child, and 
greet your cousin.” 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


7 1 


The girls gave Pearl a little icy kiss, each of them, 
and murmured something about feeling happy to 
make their cousin's acquaintance. Then they in- 
vited her to be seated and rest a few moments before 
going up to her room. 

Mrs. Lansdowne began questioning on home af- 
fairs, but her daughters, beyond putting in a word 
now and then, spent the time in attempting to 
fathom the character and disposition of the girl 
before them. They realized now that it was no 
longer concerning , but with their cousin they had 
to do. 

They saw before them a young woman, slightly 
above medium height, figure firmly knit and grace- 
ful; hair, brown; complexion as if touched by the 
rich, deep glow of an autumn sunset; lips full, 
curved and healthful in their color; nose fairly well 
shaped, yet by no means of classic perfection; con- 
tour of the face perhaps too round to be “Ma- 
donna” like in its outlines; eyes — ah! these were not 
so easy to characterize. Such eyes would be an 
artist's torment. They might be brown, they might 
be hazel, they might be gray, and they might be 
even black, they might at times be readable and 
they might again be absolutely inscrutable. The) ; 
were wonderfully expressive eyes. Those whom 
Pearl Stewart loved might thrill before their 
glance;* those whose lives she would condemn might 
blanche and quail to meet the fires of their artillery. 

That she could be termed pretty, perhaps even 


72 


MARGARETS VISIT 


handsome, was mentally agreed upon by the Lans- 
downe family. They were not quite willing, how- 
ever, to give this as their permanent opinion. 
Hers was pre-eminently a beauty of perfect health, 
of fine intelligence, and it is not easy to estimate 
this type. 

Elinoir soon invited h’er cousin upstairs to the 
room which she was to occupy during her stay at 
Beechdale. “Perhaps you would like to rest awhile 
before going down again, Margaret,” she said, quite 
pleasantly. “I presume you are fatigued after your 
trip. Such an out of the way route! You had to 
change at Rainford at four o’clock, I believe.” 

“O, yes, but I didln’t mind that at all,” replied her 
cousin brightly. “I am used to rising rather early 
— never later than six. O, no, I am not tired in the 
least. I could do the same thing over several times 
and not feel much the worse for the exertion. I am 
hopelessly healthy, you see. By the way, Elinoir, 
you called me 'Margaret’; did you think — ?” 

Elinoir interrupted her, while a little flush colored 
her usually pale cheek. 

“I had a friend once,” she said, looking down a 
little sadly. “Her name was Pearl, and” — (chok- 
ing)— 

“O, I see,” answered Pearl, grasping the situ- 
ation with sympathetic quickness. “You lost her, 
perhaps, and you do not care to hear the name.” 

“Yes,” in relieved tones, “exactly, and mamma 
thought since 'Pearl’ is only a nickname for 'Mar- 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


73 


garet’ anyway, it might not be displeasing to you.’’ 

‘‘Certainly not,” rejoined the other. “I would not 
desire to give you unnecessary pain. Call me ‘Mar- 
garet’ if you wish.” 

“You are very kind!” answered Elinoir, with 
something more of genuine good will in her tones 
than Pearl had heard since her arrival. 

“Perhaps, though, your name is ‘Margaret/ and 
you were called ‘Pearl’ for short. That used to be 
the way, you know,” Elinoir rattled on in unwise 
elucidation. “Now, when we were little, mamma 
called us Kitty and Bell and Ella. Of course such 
names now are horribly ‘out.’ Only quite ordinary 
people impose them on their children.” 

Suddenly Elinoir thought her cousin’s eyes 
looked black as they were turned upon her. She 
felt uneasy at their steady gaze and allowed her own 
to fall. 

“The only significance which a name hlas for 
us, after all, is its associational relations, I think,” 
said Pearl earnestly. “In spite of my name being 
passe it is a very precious one to me. Mother called 
me so, because I was, she used to say, a priceless 
jewel to her. The name meant much to her; there- 
fore it means much, very much to me; but I think, 
Elinoir, I would rather be ‘Margaret’ to you, if you 
wish it.” 

The steady eyes were looking at her still. Eli- 
noir, for perhaps the first time in her life, felt a 
sensation somewhat akin to shame. It was cer- 


74 


MARGARETS VISIT 


tainly the first time she had come in contact with 
a nature so noble and sincere. Naturally her own 
seemed suddenly shrunken and deformed! in com- 
parison. She felt no inclination to continue the 
tete a tetc , so she said, “When you are ready, Mar- 
garet, come right down to the library. Make your- 
self perfectly at home.” Then she smiled and nod- 
ded pleasantly and left the room. She was thank- 
ful to get away from those accusing eyes. They 
seemed to follow her even out in the hallway, like 
the eyes in a portrait which she had once seen. 

She fled to the room below in such agitation of 
spirit and speech as to cause instant consternation 
among the other members of the family. 

“What on earth is the matter, Elinoir,” cried 
Yzabel, looking at her sister, wild-eyed and flushed. 

“O, I’ve — her name you know — I must tell you 
— quick — before she comes down! I invented the 
best story you ever heard. Just literally fell into 
luck!” panted Elinoir. 

“Sit down child! What are you trying to tell?” 
asked her mother. 

Elinoir’s excitement began to calm itself, and she 
tried hard to collect her scattered wits sufficiently 
to give an intelligible account of herself. 

“I concluded to make hay while the sun shone, 
so I quite naturally, you know, addressed her as 
'Margaret/ I am so sorry,” regretfully, “that I 
didn’t say Marguerite, but I didn’t, so there’s an 
end of it. At first I rather thought she had not 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


75 


noticed my little slip of the tongue, but she did. 
She asked me rather suddenly why I had called 
her so. In just a second a nice story popped into 
my head — it must have been pure and unadulter- 
ated inspiration. I told her I had a friend once 
whose name was Pearl, and then while deciding 
whether this friend was dead or false, she saved me 
the trouble, dear, little pigeon, by saying, ‘O, yes, I 
see — and — she is dead. It makes you feel sad to 
hear her name mentioned/ Then, you see, I had 
my cue. I was ready to burst with laughter, ac- 
tually! I thanked her very much for her consider- 
ation and went on saying something about nick- 
names — Pm awfully afraid, though, I made a jum- 
ble out of this — I don’t remember clearly what I 
did say now, but all at once her eyes had such a 
queer look in them, it brought me to my senses. 
They seemed to pierce right down — down into me. 
I felt about as large as a minikin. She answered 
something, I can’t remember what, only that she 
said herself she would rather be called ‘Margaret/ 
It’s over now, and you can’t say, mamma, that I 
never know what to answer at the right time, can 
you?” 

“No, my dear, I think you did quite well on this 
occasion. When you learn to be as politic as your 
mother and Katheryn, Elinoir, I will not worry,” 
replied Mrs. Lansdowne, in a tone commendatory 
of her daughter’s rapid progress along the line of 
social expediencies. “The trouble with both you 


76 


MARGARETS VISIT 


and Yzabel,” broke in Katheryn, suddenly inflated 
and moved by her mother’s compliment to give in- 
structions, “is that after you have told your story 
you will never let 'well enough’ alone. You dash 
on in your attempt to make things more plausible 
and consequently get mixed up in your own web. 
When you have said your little speech, stop short! 
It’s the rambler that arouses suspicion; remember 
that.” 

Elinoir took without comment this bit of wise 
counsel from her eldest sister, but Yzabel, consid- 
ering her abilities had been unjustly attacked, re- 
marked sarcastically : 

“When we have told as many of those 'advan- 
tageous truths’ as you have, Katheryn, we will be 
quite equal to you. Pray, have no fear. We have 
not been practicing long enough, my dear.” 

A little embryotic breeze was suddenly quelled 
by the sound of Margaret’s light, quick step on the 
stair. Mrs. Lansdowne arose as her niece came in- 
to the room. “Do you feel refreshed, dear?” she 
asked, looking critically into the girl’s blooming 
face. “I am afraid you did not rest long enough. 
I’ll ring for Betty to bring us some claret. We are 
a little exhausted ourselves this morning. The 
girls were out very late last night at the Poker 
Club, and I, of course, could not sleep till they were 
in. A mother never can, you know.” 

Betty appeared at the door. “Claret and wafers, 
Betty,” ordered Mrs. Lansdowne. Then, address- 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


77 


ing her niece, “it is so stimulating. It will make 
you feel quite yourself again, I am sure.” 

A clear, rippling little laugh broke forth from the 
girl’s throat as naturally as the song from a wood- 
land warbler. It was as refreshing to hear as the 
waters of a cascade. 

“Why, Aunt Frances,” she exclaimed, “you arc 
so entirely mistaken in thinking I am in the least 
weary. Indeed,” looking longingly out of the win- 
dow opposite her, “nothing would give me greater 
pleasure than to take a walk this instant over those 
beautiful slopes yonder. You forget I am a coun- 
try girl.” 

Her regal, strong, young frame seemed as it 
stood sharply outlined against the filmy whiteness 
of the curtains, a very Juno. It was a contrast 10 
the frail, slender figures of the Misses Lansdowne. 

Yes, they had really overlooked for the moment 
that she was their “country cousin.” 


CHAPTER X. 


GETTING INTO SOCIETY. 

FTER luncheon the family went to their 
respective rooms, and Margaret was 
again subjected to the ordeal of taking 
several hours’ unneeded “rest.” She 
had indeed ventured to suggest a short 
ramble by herself, but the idea brought 
such an instant look of horror on the 
faces of her cousins that though she did 
not understand in what way she had 
offended she quickly gave up the project. 

Dinner was served at six. Maud was sent up- 
stairs at eight, presumably for the purpose of retir- 
ing. Margaret soon after, having occasion to go 
to her room, heard hushed voices on a rear porch 
extending to one window of her room, when she 
glanced out she thought she recognized her young 
cousin with several companions, and all were seem- 
ingly having a much gayer time than the young 
ladies in the library. 

When Margaret returned below, the party there, 
she could see from the stairs, had been augmented 
by a young man. The evening that had promised 
to be of insufferable dullness for at least three of 
the young people was now suddenly filled with 
pleasurable anticipations. 



A MODERN PATRICIAN 


79 


Elinoir, when she heard Margaret coming, 
rushed out into the hall to meet her and to impart 
the news of the advent of their neighbor, Fletcher 
Chatterton, who had the enviable reputation of af- 
fording bushels of fun wherever he went. Mar- 
garet, on being introduced, strangely enough, re 
tained perfect presence of mind, though before a 
representative of the Beechdale elect, and she was 
enabled to take him in, perhaps even more compre- 
hensively than he did her. 

He was of nondescript color and wore a suit, 
perhaps with a view of matching his hair and com- 
plexion. His hands were small for a man, but in- 
dicative, no doubt of a noble ancestry, and he wore 
on the little finger of his left hand a heavy gold 
ring, in which was embedded a flashing diamond. 
His mouth was much too large for good looks, 
however suited it might be to other purposes, but 
its ill proportion was made less noticeable by a 
heavy blond mustache artistically curled and care- 
fully trained upward at the ends, thus making what 
might ahve been a disastrous homeliness of slight 
consequence in the summnm totum of his personal 
appearance. 

Margaret could not determine just how the gen- 
tleman particularly merited Elinoir’s enconium un- 
less the constant and amazing exercise of his cach- 
innatory powers could be construed as the “bush- 
els of fun” that Mr. Chatterton was accustomed to 
donate. 


8o 


GETTING INTO SOCIETY 


“Amid, so this is your cousin, Miss Katheryn, of 
whom you were speaking last evening — or this 
morning would be more accurate, would it not? 
He-he-he-he! Well, I am delighted to meet you. 
Miss Stewart! Indeed I am! He-he-he-he! Al- 
ways glad to welcome a nice girl. He-he-Pardon- 
nez-moi, Miss Katheryn! Really that was no libel 
on the fair ones already here! We love you all! 
He-he-he-he-he! But you see, Miss Stewart, we 
can take in a few more — if they’re good looking. 
We only take in the good looking ones, mind you. 
Isn’t that so, Miss Yzabel?” 

“O, Mr. Chatterton, how insincere you men are. 
I don’t believe you care a fig for anyone of us,” re- 
plied Yzabel, with a melting glance. 

“How can you, Miss Yzabel! How can you be 
so cruel? Don’t you remember what I told you 
last night? He-he-he-he!” 

“What was that, Mr. Chatterton? Do tell me” 
cried Elinoir, in an alarmed tone from her seat on 
the piano stool. “What did you tell her?” 

“Shall I, Miss Yzabel?” 

“If you want to,” answered that young person, 
with perfect sang froid. 

“Don’t be jealous, now, any of you,” with a 
sweeping glance, which also included Margaret. 

“You know that bewitching dress Miss Yzabel 
wore at Mrs. Pierson’s? Mrs. Pierson entertained 
the Poker Club in swell fashion last night, Miss 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


81 


Stewart. You play that fascinating game, of 
course?” 

“No, Mr. Chatterton, I will have to plead igno- 
rance there.” 

It was really a relief to hear the sound of her own 
voice. It had been the first opportunity to demon- 
strate her powers of speech. Mr. Chatterton looked 
a full second in pitying and silent amazement on the 
representation of such self-confessed ignorance. 
Then he took up the thread of his previous discus- 
sion. 

“Well, I said — yes, I did; I couldn't help it, really 
I couldn't! He! he! he! he! I said — her arms 
were pretty enough to kiss!” with a climatic burst 
of gallantry. “They were surely, Miss Stewart, 
what one could see of them! He! he! he! he!” 

A chorus of laughs followed which lasted 1 — at in- 
tervals — for fully five minutes. Margaret turned 
with bored expression plainly visible on her features 
to see how her aunt was appreciating the conver- 
sation, but Mrs. Lansdowne had at this critical 
juncture discreetly withdrawn, leaving thie young 
folks to enjoy themselves alone. 

She longed to rush to her own room and to give 
vent to her feelings. She almost hated the prattling 
fool before her who seemed never wearied of his 
own vocal reverberations. She could not but enter- 
tain the utmost contempt for those who could sit 
tranquilly and, doubtless, for an indefinite time, 
listening to such nauseating flattery. Then Mr. 


82 


GETTING INTO SOCIETY 


Chatterton asked Katheryn to sing, and the invita- 
tion was accepted with alacrity. For the next hour 
Katheryn was aiming at the heart of Mr. Chatter- 
ton with all the darts which “Midsummer Dreams 1 ' 
and “I Love Thee," and others of like sentiment 
could produce. Mr. Chatterton, whenever the way 
was clear, showed his appreciation of the poet’s 
thoughts by sending silent little tokens of the grand 
passion to Elinoir and Yzabel. 

Eleven struck at last. Margaret had a wild desire 
to try the efficacy of mental suggestion to rid her- 
self of this animated incubus. She was saved the 
trouble, however, as Mr. Chatterton concluded of 
his own volition to bring his call to a close. 

“Miss Stewart," he said, extending curved fingers 
to Margaret and giving* hers the approved ultra- 
fashionable oscillation, “I shall certainly tell my 
sisters what an addition has been made to Beech- 
dale in your coming to us. We are very exclusive 
here. We don’t take everybody in, you/know. He! 
he! he! he! he!" 

“So I am to consider it a great honor, Mr. Chat- 
terton," she observed. Even poor Chatterton 
thought he detected a disdainful smile curling her 
lips for ain instant. He was just a little disconcerted 
at first as to how to answer; he tried to get his 
bearings. 

“Yes, yes, a great honor!" They heard a few' 
little warbles even from the hall where he was get- 
ting his hat and gold-headed cane. 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


83 


“Isn’t he jolly?” asked' Elinoir soto voce. “The 
girls are all just wild after him. They’d give their 
heads to get him.” 

“Would they?” returned Margaret abstractedly. 


CHAPTER XI. 


DAILY HAPPENINGS. 

iE next morning broke cool and clear 
over Beechdale. Margaret breathed in 
the redolent air with the delight of an 
exile returning to pleasures long lost. 
To her, wherever nature thrilled, it was 
the same yesterday, today, and forever. 
Although it was an early hour she felt 
quite incapable of alluring herself 
again to the land of dreams, and after 
dressing she sat down by a window to drink in at 
leisure the charms of a new-born day which had 
not yet lost the impress of dawn's rosy fingers. 

The rising bell rang at eight and Margaret was 
thankful for the coffee and fruit that Betty brought 
to her room. So healthful a constitution as hers 
craved something rather more substantial than 
early-morning reveries. 

Katheryn did not appear at the breakfast table. 
She was suffering from headache and both Yzabel 
and Elinoir looked jaded. 

“Did you have a good night’s rest?” inquired 
Mrs. Lansdowne of her niece with appreciable con- 
cern in her tones. 

“A most refreshing one, though my rest was not 
so long as yours, I think. I was awake at six and 



A MODERN PATRICIAN 


^5 


enjoyed a delightful hour or so by the window. 1 
think there are such exquisite views from my win- 
dow.” 

“Do you, dear?’' answered Mrs. Lansdowne, with 
a little yawn. “Beechdale is a very beautiful place, 
people think (reflectively). But, my dear, you surely 
cannot always indulge in such early hours. I pre- 
sume it is caused by being in a strange place. I 
am often affected that way myself, i am sorry 
you waked so early.” 

“O, feel no sorrow on that account. I think it a 
privilege to rise early. One misses quite the most 
beautiful part of the day by remaining in bed till 
eight. I would never wish to do that, really.” 

“Gracious!” broke in Elinoir, “how can you ever 
kill time in that way? I would simply expire if the 
days were so interminable. It would seem ages till 
evening. The men never drop in till so late, you 
know. They are monstrously lazy beings.” 

“Kill time!” echoed Margaret. “Why, it seems 
to me that before I do half I should do and indeed 
that I want to do, the day is gone.” 

Yzabel looked at her cousin with a compassion- 
ate smile on her face. Really, argument with such 
rare simplicity was obviously futile, and Yzabel 
forebore. Elinoir, however, never willing any sub- 
ject should be dropped without being brought to a 
satisfactory issue, went on with the discussion. 

“Why, society people all do that way. You see 
after one is 'out' there are such streams of engage- 


86 


DAILY HAPPENINGS 


ments, one has to take care of one's self. Why, 
there are--" 

“Girls, do quit talking for a moment," pleaded 
Mrs. Lansdowne, from behind her paper. “Here is 
a notice about Elinoir." There was instant atten- 
tion. 

“Miss Elinoir Lansdowne, niece of Mr. Frederick 
William Lansdowne, and one of the sweet, young 
buds of the coming winter, was very much admired 
at Bar Harbor this season, and it is said this charm- 
ing Dulcinea wears several of Cupid's trophies on 
her girdle. Miss Elinoir graduated this year from 
Miss Graymore's fashionable school at Chilborne. 
She had the honor of special mention among those 
of the senior class." 

“Well," queried Mrs. Lansdowne, “how do you 
suppose these things get into the paper and what 
would reporters do if they could not pull us society 
people to pieces. They are veritable private detec- 
tives. It is really quite provoking to have one's 
name so constantly before the public in this way." 

“Yes, I should feel quite annoyed, too-, Aunt 
Frances," remarked Margaret; “and how do they 
manage to get all such information?" Mlrs. Lans- 
downe eyed her niece a little sharply. 

“Heaven knows, my dear! There are hundreds 
of wavs. Perhaps the item has been copied from a 
Chilborne paper and embellished. It is very irritat- 
ing, certainly!" Then the conversation was quickly 
turned to less dangerous channels. 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


8 7 


“Maud,” said Mrs. Lansdowne after breakfast, 
“hurry, love, and Elinoir will drive you to school 
this morning. She has to go to Madame Renaud 
about her dress. Margaret, would you like to take 
a drive, dear?” Margaret with alacrity answered in 
the affirmative, though, in truth, she felt like a caged 
bird and would have preferred to walk. 

“What time does your school open?” asked Mar- 
garet. 

“Quarter past nine,” drawled Maud. “I go to a 
private school, you know — Miss Huntington’s. It 
used to begin at nine, but the public school opens 
then and most of the girls’ mothers didn’t want 
them to go till after the crowd had passed. Public 
school children are so rough and use such awful 
language.” 

“Are your public schools good here?” inquired 
Margaret of her aunt. 

“O, yes, quite up to the standard, I presume; but 
they push them so outrageously. Dr. Winthrop 
says all my children are of such nervous tempera- 
ments they could never in the world stand it to go 
through. Maud looks well,” apologetically, “but 
she isn’t. Dr. Winthrop says,” (Mrs. Lansdowne 
with maternal prudence lowered her voice) “that 
Maud’s brain is entirely too active and that she 
should not be pushed under any circumstances. I 
have to watch her very carefully. Maud, love, have 
you your rubbers.” 

“Yes,” replied that delicate young person. “Betty 


88 


DAILY HAPPENINGS 


hunted them up for me. It made my head dizzy to 
look so much/’ In spite of precaution to guard the 
secret, Maud doubtless was aware of the precarious 
condition of her brain. 

The phaeton had now come to the door. The 
three started off and after leaving Maud at Miss 
Huntington's and stopping a few moments at Mad- 
ame Renaud's, Elinor drove around the little ham- 
let, that she might point out the elegant mansions 
to Margaret and identify them with the various 
magnates of Beechdale. 

They approached a large, grey stone, situated far 
back from the entrance gate and almost concealed 
by the beautiful autumn-tinted trees. ‘That is a 
beautiful place/' observed Margaret. 

“It is rather pretty, though it is a little too shady 
to be artistic. It is the old Glover place. The 
family are travelling in Europe for Mr. Glover's 
health. Poor man! He was one of the wealthiest 
merchants in Beechdale before he failed. The house 
is leased now to Major Dearborne. The Major 
just married this summer and — " Elinor did not 
conclude her sentence for just then out of the gate 
rolled an elegant rockawav in which was seated a 
lady whom Elinoir announced as Mrs. Dearborne. 

The occupants of the two vehicles were soon 
within speaking distance of each other. 

“Miss Elinoir, is that your cousin?" inquired 
Mrs. Dearborne in a soft, musical voice with the 
slightest and most charming of foreign accents. “I 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


89 


heard only yesterday that she was expected.” 

“Yes; Margaret, this is Mrs. Dearborne. Miss 
Stewart, Mrs. Dearborne. My cousin was just ad- 
miring your place as you came out.” 

“It is a beautiful spot,” said Margaret. “The 
trees are so grand. The scenery around here is 
magnificent.” “So? I am delighted you are 
pleased. I want to say, Miss Elinoir, that I was 
going over this very moment to make you a morn- 
ing call. Just a little ‘drop in/ You have been' all 
so kind to me — a stranger. I appreciate it. I love 
you!” There were sparkling tears in Mrs. Dear- 
borne’s soft eyes. “But never mind, dear, do not 
shorten your drive. I will come over about half- 
past four tomorrow afternoon. That is too early? 
No? I will not surely steal you from your nap?” 

“We will be charmed to see you then,” replied 
Elinoir graciously. 

“I will not forget. Miss Stewart, I am truly so 
happy to have met you.” There was cast upon 
Margaret a soulful, bewitching smile, and Margaret 
responded : 

“I am sure, Mrs. Dearborne, I will be pleased to 
see you again so soon.” 

The little lady smiled back an acknowledgment, 
kissed her diaintly gloved hand to Margaret and 
Elinoir and was soon being driven rapidly down the 
avenue. 

“What a very fascinating woman!” was Margar- 


9 o 


DAILY HAPPENINGS 


et’s impulsive comment. “You say she is a foreign- 
er? 

“O, yes, you can easily detect that from her ac- 
cent. She is German; but she speaks English 
quite well. She is very highly educated, they say. 
Major Dearborne married her a few months ago 
at Heidelberg.” 

“Then she is only just come tO‘ America?” 

“O, I cannot tell, really, just how long she has 
lived here ; quite a number of years, I think. The 
major first met here here.” Elinoir was fearful that 
she might divulge too much of the major’s private 
affairs. She felt she was jumbling matters even 
now. She wisely turned! the conversation into 
broader channels and kept it there during the rest 
of the drive. 

While Margaret was in her room after her re- 
turn Mrs. Lansdowne gave her daughters some 
good advice. 

“I want to say that it would be best, I think, not 
to speak of the rumors afloat concerning Major 
Dearborne and his wife. The truth cannot be 
proved by us, you know. If Margaret knows of the 
affair, however, I am sure that shie would have 
nothing more to do with Mrs. Dearborne. It would 
make things uncomfortable for us. The girl hasn’t 
an atom of allowance. It is indeed difficult to find 
where some people have their Christianity stored 
away.” 

“Just what I thought,” announced Elinoir with a 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


9 1 


smile of satisfaction on her face, “and that is pre- 
cisely the reason I did 1 not tell her more than I did 
about the major and his wife. She is quite favor- 
ably impressed with her now, I think; ” 

“You used great discretion, my dear,” replied 
Mrs. Lansdowne commendably. 

“It is my opinion that we will need a goodly num- 
ber of secret sessions to keep affairs straight,” ob- 
served Katheryn, wisely. “Things must have a 
pretty genuine appearance to meet her approba- 
tion.” 

There was gradually forming in the minds of the 
members of the Lansdowne family the conception 
that Margaret’s moral pre-judgments might be, per- 
haps, far worse to do battle with than her rustic 
blunders. 


CHAPTER. XII. 


AS SOCIETY SEES IT. 

AJOR DEARBORNE and! his wife sat 
in their drawing-room. The faces of 
both wore a look of expectancy, hers 
eager, sanguine, his nervous, apprehen- 
sive. The Major glanced at his watch 
(the third time within five minutes.) 

“You need have no fears, my dear 
major/' observed his wife. As she 
spoke she glanced at her graceful figure 
in the long mirror at the end of the room. “They 
will probably not be here much before nine." Then 
she arose from her chair and walked down the long 
room. The Major looked after her admiringly. 

Mrs. Dearborne was beautiful, men said, and are 
they not judges? But it was certainly a beauty ex- 
isting in activity alone. When in repose, though 
this was very rare, her face wore the stolid, expres- 
sionless look which marks Teutonic extraction ; and 
her very form at such times seemed suddenly to 
lose its beauty of contour and become the inert 
clay. But the sylphic motion which; had set fre- 
quenters of the famous Altenberg wild, could charm 
in the drawing-room as well; the graceful poise of 
the head, the control of every movement, the fairy 
step, the expressive face that, with Protean skill 



A MODERN PATRICIAN 


93 


mirrored a thousand emotions at will, made up a 
most fascinating personality. Tonight she wore a 
black costume of some sheer, Oriental weave, em- 
broidered in gleaming beetle’s wings, and her spark- 
ling eyes seemed to have caught the very hue of 
her spangled gown. 

She came and settled back into her chair again 
with a complacent smile. There was every reason, 
she felt, to be satisfied with the world in general 
and herself in particular, for she was about to make 
her initial bow to Beechdale society. 

On her first acquaintance with Mrs. Lansdowne’s 
niece her wit had suggested that in the girl might 
be found the rescuer who should draw her from the 
dangerous shoals of calumny to the firm and solid 
foundations of the haul inonde. Through her she 
might try the fluctuating pulse of Beechdale. 

She began to plan then and there and tonight 
would! decide if it were a losing game she had 
played: Margaret Stewart her guest of honor; a 
few of Beechdale’s choicest spirits bidden to cele- 
brate the event. 

She looked amusedly at the Major’s fingers toy- 
ing nervously with his black silk guard. “You 
know Mrs. Chatterton’s daughters, my dear? 
Well, I went there first after Miss Stewart had ac- 
cepted, to sound them. They pretended to be de- 
lighted to come, pleased to be so honored. Ha! ha! 
ha! My way was easy then. All I needed to say 
after that was that Miss Chatterton and her sister 


94 


AS SOCIETY SEES IT 


would be here and my invitation was accepted. 
Ach! they follow like a flock of sheep. It was fun 
to see the fools and I, Frauliem Hilda, leading 
them!” The memory of it all quite overcame her. 
She clapped her hands in an abandonment of mirth. 
The Major looked uneasily toward an open door 
beyond and frowned. He caught the fleeting vision 
of a servant's vanishing head. She did not heed the 
look, nor yet the frown. “But the best — the very 
best, my dear, is yet to tell. That little country chit 
with her big eyes looking through you. O, you 
should have seen her — how I won her — ” 

'There, a carriage!" cried the Major, in the sev- 
enth heaven of delight and cutting off in his excite- 
ment, Mrs. Major's ecstacies. 

"You're a brick, my love — I've told you that 
before, I think — you've brought 'em!” 

The first arrivals proved to be the honored guest 
and two of her cousins with Mr. Cliatterton. Kath- 
eryn was coming later with Mr. Boskin. By nine 
the Major felt that he was monarch of all he sur- 
veyed and winked confidentially at his wife as she 
floated past him. The drawing-room and spacious 
halls were echoing to the laughter of "fair women 
and brave men.” Soon they began to wander off 
to little nooks and cozy corners where they could 
coo away quite unmolested. 

Then at last Margaret herself was free to move 
about the rooms; the Major came toward her with 
Mr. Nelson Boskin, Katheryn's escort. Katheryn 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


95 


was enjoying a fete a fete with the Reverend Har- 
court. Mr. Boskin was a large, rather pompous- 
looking young man with fierce moustache and with 
a propensity for keeping up a perpetual jingle with 
one hand or the other in his trousers’ pockets. He 
carried her off immediately to the hall, where a 
number were congregated about the cheering bowl. 

“Allow me, Miss Stewart — it’s beastly hot in here 
— to offer you a cooling draught,” said Mr. Boskin 
in his best style. “A little lemonade — a la Dear- 
borne, I suppose!” The room was intensely warm, 
the offer a welcome one. She reached her hand for 
the dainty cup, filled with its frothy liquid. When 
she had drunken the contents she turned to place 
the glass on the table, but Mr. Boskin was not to 
be found napping as to politeness. 

“ Another, Miss Stewart? Pardon my neglect. I 
was just speaking here to your cousin. I did not 
notice you had finished. A thousand pardons!” 
Mr. Boskin lifted the sparkling ladle to serve her. 
She raised a detaining hand. “Thank you, no. Mr. 
Boskin — no more.” 

“Mr. Boskin, T am afraid my cousin is not fullv 
initiated as yet into the mysteries of Bacchus.” It 
was Katheryn’s voice, accompanied by a little, low 
mocking laugh. “Just fill this one for me, will you? 
My sixth glass! I drank four with the rector!” 
Mr. Boskin discharged the duty with alacrity and 
then performed a like service for himself. Suddenly 


96 


AS SOCIETY SEES IT 


he looked at Margaret and then he broke into a 
seemingly uncontrollable fit of laughter. 

"A teetotaler. Miss Stewart? I beg a thousand 
pardons for not being responsible for the strength 
of this — ah — beverage.” The tone of his voice and 
the veiled sarcasm beneath his words angered her. 

“I have not called you to account that I know 
of, Mr. Boskin; it is quite needless to beg my par- 
don,” she replied a little stiffly. Mr. Boskin did not 
seem at all affected by the rebuke, but continued: 
“Miss Stewart, I am sure you want to know how 
such confoundedly hot stuff was ever supposed to 
make one cool. I declare I can't myself crack that 
nut. I have better knack in filling glasses, you see 
— your seventh, Miss Lansdowne — than solving 
riddles. My education is a little deficient there. 
Here's Mr. Douglass, though — he has seemed to be 
more interested in this conversation than with the 
major's punch — perhaps he can come to our rescue. 
Won't you have a glass, Douglass? No? Why, 
man alive, you don't mean to say that you have 
sworn off, this early in the evening! You'll go 
home disgracefully sober if you keep that up, won't 
he, Miss Lansdowne? Now, look here, Douglass, 
while I have my senses clear, I want to propound 
Miss Stewart's riddle — did von hear it, by the way? 
You were standing right there.” Mr. Boskin 
drained another cup of punch at a single draught 
and began jingling in his pocket for diversion. 
“Perhaps Miss Stewart would be able to solve the 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


97 


enigma herself, if she were out of this crush,” an- 
swered Douglass. A look of intense relief and 
inexpressible gratitude passed over Margaret’s face. 
He saw it. With only the slightest apology to B os- 
kin for carrying off hiis lady in so unceremonious 
a fashion, Douglass touched Margaret’s arm and 
turned with her toward the music room. 

“Would you like to take a peep at the art room, 
Miss Stewart?” he asked. “The Major has quite a 
fine collection of pictures, I hear, picked up 
abroad.” 

“O, I would be so delighted,” she answered in 
relieved tones. “My cousin told me about them. 
I was afraid I would miss the opportunity.” 

“You might have done so had I not carried you 
off so unceremoniously. I presume I was rude, but 
you didn’t seem to be enjoying yourself there. I 
dislike to see people miserable. Philosophers tell 
us that sympathy is only a form of selfishness, after 
all; I have a feeling they are right somehow.” She 
raised two dark eyes to his and there was more real, 
honest pleasure in their depths than had been there 
before that evening. 

“I’m sure I was glad for the relief offered,” she 
said, candidly. “I was intensely bored.” 

“You have not had much to do with Vanity Fair, 
have you?” he asked. 

In spite of that little derisory smile that seemed 
so a part of this man, there was a pleasant echo of 
sincerity in his voice which at once made Margaret 


98 


AS SOCIETY SEES IT 


feel at ease in his presence. She could not believe 
that he was amusing himself with her evident inex- 
perience in the ways of high society. It was as 
though she had found one to whom she could 1 speak 
out her heart. 

“1 hope I am mistaken in my inference of your 
meaning, Mr. Douglass. I do not want to believe 
we are within miles of Vanity Fair.” 

She looked at him expectantly, but there was no 
sign that he intended to qualify his statement. The 
same bantering smile rested in his eyes. “I am 
awfully sorry, believe me, to shatter your innocent 
dreams,” he said a little regretfully, “but before you 
go tonight, if you are willing to see it, I think per- 
haps you will be ready to acknowledge that Vanity 
Fair is about you. We poor creatures brought up 
in this tinselled structure cannot be deceived.” 

They had stopped before a landscape of rare 
beauty. It caught Margaret’s eye. The apprecia- 
tive expression on his companion’s face did not es- 
cape Douglass. He stepped closer. 

“By the distinguished 1 comedian, Joseph Jeffer- 
son,” he remarked. “Do you call it a fine piece of 
work?” 

“I should not think myself competent to judge 
as to its value except that landscapes are my spe- 
cialty; not that I am an artist, however, but because 
I feel so at home with nature. I should say that 
such a work as this could come only from the brush 
of one who has the broadest sympathy with her. 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


99 


I think often we are conscious of the magnetic 
power of a work and vet have no technical knowl- 
edge in regard to it; do you not think this is so? 
I believe I was born with a passion for woods and 
streams. Intuitively I know whether the artist 
loves them too; especially am I susceptible to his 
subtle power now that I am in a measure an exile.” 
There was a half-proud, half-challenging smile on 
her face at the last words. If Douglass interpreted 
it he did not give any outward sign. 

“I confess that I have never thought of criticism 
apart from technical knowledge,' ” he said. “I think 
the test of value as you present it might well hold 
a higher place when compared with mere analytic 
judgment; but such critics, I am afraid, would be 
rare and hard to find.” 

“I do not agree with you, Mr. Douglass,” she re- 
plied, shaking her head. “This is the trouble 1 — the 
world does not want to find them.” 

He laughed. “I raise the white flag of truce,” he 
said, picking up her filmy handkerchief at his feet. 
“And, by the by, Miss Stewart, we were speaking 
of Vanity Fair — what do you think of its author?” 
He was curious to know what this girl, so apprecia- 
tive of art, had to say of literature. “I swear by 
Thackeray, so I can seldom see his faults. One is 
likely to fall into such little weakness when rating 
one’s friends.” 

“Yes, it is natural, I believe; but I cannot quite 
say Thackeray claims the highest place in my affec- 


LofC. 


IOO 


AS SOCIETY SEES IT 


tions, Mr. Douglass / 5 she replied. “He is an 
inimitable writer and I enjoy him immensely; yet 
whenever I read him I always have the impression 
that only one side of his nature was really ever de- 
veloped. He sits too continually as the stern judge. 
He becomes at last, I think, the misanthrope that 
believes all the world a rogue. One easily influ- 
enced in his opinions, and reading Thackeray, 
might come to the conclusion, quite naturally, too, 
I think, that all true worth had perished from the 
earth. Of what avail is it to pour into the gilded 
palace of Vanity Fair the penetrating light of cyni- 
cism; to let us see all the sham of its glitter; to 
reveal the skeletons hidden away in every nook 
and then, when we would flee from it all, horrified 
and bewildered, crying, ‘Where is there any truth ? 5 
be answered by the mockery of silence? The pen is 
a wonderful power, but it can never fulfill its mission 
until it depicts the noble as well as the base — the 
base as well as the noble — and no writer has at- 
tained his most potent influence until he has wielded 
such a pen . 55 

In her ardor she quite forgot all else except that 
she was talking to one who felt with her. She was 
certain that this tall, handsome, distinguished-look- 
ing man at her side was somehow no more in sym- 
pathy with much that was going on around than 
was she herself. 

They had reached while talking a small alcove 
and stood there, half concealed by the beautiful 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


IOI 


statuary and stately palms within the recess. They 
made a pretty picture to any one caring to look; 
Margaret, — her hands clasped tightly together in 
her earnestness, her eyes so guiltless of any glance 
of coquetry, looking steadily at Douglass; he, — 
listening to her with intense admiration visible on 
his face; but the tableau was spoiled in another in- 
stant. 

“Oh, here you are! You must be very indus- 
trious people to have gotten the rounds so soon/’ 
observed a feminine voice. Margaret and Douglass 
started as if rudely awakened from a dream. Turn- 
ing, they saw Miss Chatterton clinging confidingly 
to the arm of her escort, the Reverend Dr. Har- 
court. 

The clergyman, though on the shady side of 
forty, was eligible for gatherings of all ages. 

Gossip had it that the Reverend gentleman, dur- 
ing his previous incumbency, was so besieged for 
his heart and hand as to make life almost worthless 
from a clerical standpoint. Every look, every smile, 
though given in the capacity of his holy office, was 
interpreted as pointing to something far more seri- 
ous; whereupon, countless trousseaus were planned, 
dreams dreamed and visions indulged in. In the 
midst of his dilemma came the urgent call from 
“The Holy Angels.” 

The Church of the Holy Angels was at the time 
in a state of perplexity as great as that of the Rev- 
erend Harcourt. Unfortunately, their former pas- 


102 


AS SOCIETY SEES IT 


tor had not been the man for the place,. His people 
outgrew their straitened paths and when they 
climbed to higher altitudies of crucifixes and of can- 
dles, the pastor, bewildered, halted on the plains 
below. The shepherdless flock floated about for a 
while in imminent danger of gospel starvation un- 
less a man of broader parts might be found who 
was able to dispense U> them ceremonial formu- 
laries and incidentally the Bread of Life. They 
heard of the Reverend Harcourt. He was high and 
broad and altogether of the most approved propor- 
tions. The call was loud and the Reverend Har- 
court heard. Whether he found Cupid less per- 
sistent in his new field, he alone could say. Certain 
it was that he was a welcome adjunct to “little in- 
formal” or to a “social crush.” 

Douglass was the first to respond to Miss Chat- 
terton’s little sally. 

“I am afraid Miss Stewart and myself can not 
claim the diligence which you so generously ascribe 
to us. We have been idling away our time — per- 
haps I should not say idling, though — in discussing 
Vanity Fair and Thackeray; sort of debate, you 
know, with Miss Stewart on the winning side.” 

“O, I am afraid I have given Mr. Douglass very 
little chance to express his opinions. I have done 
all the talking myself.” She looked distressed over 
the enormity of such transgression. Douglass has- 
tened to reassure her. 

“Miss Stewart, lose no sleep tonight on that 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


103 


score." Then, in a slightly lowered tone and as if 
heedless of the others at his side, he added: “I have 
found this the most refreshing half hour I am able 
to call to mind for many a long day. Shall we make 
an attempt to look at some of the paintings over 
here?" 

“I am afraid, Mr. Douglass, you will miss one of 
the treats of the evening if you do. Major Dear- 
borne’s art collection is most fascinating, but Mrs. 
Lawrence’s voice is divine," volunteered Dr. Har- 
court, addressing Douglass, but letting an admiring 
glance rest upon Margaret. ‘T fear you will be in 
a strait betwixt, too, if you do not either veil your 
eyes or stop your ears." 

Whatever Douglass might have felt personally in 
the matter, Margaret took the initiative. 

“O, is there to be singing?" she exclaimed de- 
lightedly. “I am sure we would not wish to miss 
that, would we, Mr. Douglass? There is nothing I 
love better than to hear a beautiful voice." 

“Where is the singing to be, Dr. Harcourt?" 

“In the east wing, on the other side of the draw- 
ing-room, I believe." 

Just then the major’s wife came toward them, 
holding out both jewelled little hands toward Mar- 
garet and giving utterance to all the delight conse- 
quent upon meeting a friend after a year’s absence. 

“Ah, Fraulien, wie grausam — how cruel! bist da 
gervesen ? I have been an hour trying to find meine 
Margarethe. I was afraid the woodland dlaisy had 


104 


AS SOCIETY SEES IT 


hidden herself from the glare of the hot house. But 
you have been with Mr. Douglass? So? I should 
have breathed easily had I known it!” Mrs. Major 
looked so innocent, so distressed, so altogether 
adorably childish, as she clasped Margaret’s hands 
in her own that the girl utterly missed the ludicrous- 
ness in the avowal that Mrs. Dearborne had for a 
whole hour so vainly sought within the confines of 
her own house for one of her guests. 

“Sorry, Mrs. Dearborne, you didn’t happen to 
think of the art room. We have only just now wan- 
dered away from there,” said Douglass, a sugges- 
tive smile in his blue eyes. 

“Yes, how stupid!” she said petulantly; “and 
now, Mr. Douglass, will you kindly take Miss Stew- 
art to the east room? Mrs. Lawrence has con- 
sented 1 to give us some music. I must see whether 
there are not others in the art room. Take care of 
Mr. Douglass, my dear. Ah! I know you will,” 
archly. “I will be with you soon.” She vanished 
like some fair goddess of the night, flashing the 
emerald hues of myriad stars. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


AN EVENING OUT. 

“O sweet flower of love, 

Gift from above, 

Go with thy blossoms before her; 

Tell her I love and adore her, 

Say she’s my only joy; 

Ah, yes, employ 
All the language of love 
Her heart to move; 

Tell of my hopes and fears, 

Tell of my sorrow and tears, 

Tell her how sweet her power, 

So speak, sweet flower!” 

HE vibrant tones of a rich contralto 
rang out with matchless purity in the 
glorious Flower Song of Faust. The 
singer appeared utterly oblivious of 
her surroundings and her eyes, as they 
were lifted, seemed gifted, as are often 
the eyes of the dying, with the faculty 
of seeing beyond the limitations of 
space. The single crimson rose which 
trembled on her breast seemed, tp Margaret, at 
least, to burn with an intense brilliance as the 
words poured with passionate tenderness from her 



io6 


AN EVENING OUT 


lips. Once during the brief interlude Margaret 
thought there were tears glistening in the singer's 
deep blue eyes, that just for a second her lips 
touched with mute caress the fragrant petals near 
them; yet the movement might have been quite 
accidental. When her eyes were lifted once more 
they were dry and brilliant. Again rang out the 
throbbing notes : 

“So, sweet flower, tell her I love her, 

By the pure stars above her! 

And when her form I see 
My heart is free. 

Sweet flower, my messenger be, 

Speak then for me, 

What I have never yet told her, 

Say that my arms would enfold her, 
Guarding from every ill, 

Loving her still. 

Thus speak, sweet flowers, for me, 

Plead thus, sweet flower, for me.” 

The last words were flung forth with- such heart- 
longing in their tones that silence for an instant, 
like a spell, fell upon the company, that supremest 
and most spontaneous acknowledgment of a sing- 
er's power; then Mrs. Lawrence bowed slightly 
toward her audience. The spell was broken. There 
was a perfect tempest of applause. She smiled, but 
the smile was sad and her eyes seemed yet on things 
beyond the ken of those about her. Margaret was 
certain that this adulation was quite barren of mean- 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


107 


ing to the beautiful woman for whom it was in- 
tended. She would have liked to go to her and say : 
“You were singing to your own heart. You are 
unhappy. I would love to comfort you if I might." 
Yet when she could get near enough to her she only 
remarked!, but with such marked appreciation in 
her voice as to gain a look of pleased surprise. 

“That was true melody, Mrs. Lawrence. Won't 
you please give us something more? I do so love 
music." Her solicitations were seconded by many 
others; yet Margaret felt that the simple little bal- 
lads which followed were sung for her alone. 

“Which is her husband?" she asked Douglass. 
“I cannot remember." 

“Yonder he stands in the hall," Douglass said. 
“That rather good-looking chap spooning with your 
cousin. He is a beau nonpareil , is worth a cool 
million or two, and regularly falls in love with 
every debutante." He watched for the effect of his 
words upon her with something of the same interest 
that a chemist might await the results of a new 
combination. 

He saw a little horrified expression creeping into 
her eyes. His analytic sense retreated in confusion. 
“Forgive me, Miss Stewart; I'm a brute," he said 
remorsefully. 

“Is he not proud of his beautiful and gifted wife?" 
she asked. 

“In a way," shrugging his shoulders slightly. 
“You think he is not paying her due respect?" he 


io8 


AN EVENING OUT 


inquired laughing. “O, don't pucker your brain 
over that, Miss Stewart. She doesn't care a rap, 
believe me — not more than she does that I am talk- 
ing this blessed minute with you. By the way, since 
the others have somewhat scattered, shall we go 
over that you may become better acquainted with 
her? I believe you would like each other im- 
mensely." 

“Yes, I would be delighted. I know I should like 
her." 

k ; 

Mrs. Lawrence was conversing with her hostess 
as Margaret and Douglass crossed over to her. 
Mrs. Dearborne was thanking her talented 1 guest 
most profusely for her contribution to the evening's 
entertainment. 

“Mrs. Lawrence," said Douglass, “Miss Stewart 
expressed a wish to become better acquainted with 
you. She thinks — pardon me for divulging secrets 
— that she would like you first rate, or something 
to that effect, wasn't it, Miss Stewart?" 

They all joined in the laugh at Margaret’s ex- 
pense. Mrs. Dearborne withdrew from the little 
circle. 

“I must be ubiquitous tonight," she explained, 
with a charming pout, as if the duty were just then 
the most unpleasant task that could be imposed. 

“Mrs. Lawrence," exclaimed Margaret impul- 
sively, “I did so enjoy your singing tonight. Your 
first song, too, seemed so appropriate — " she point- 
ed to the rose on the other's bosom — “I felt almost 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


109 


as if there were consciousness in that magnificent 
flower — as if it must have heard you speak.” 

The color deepened slightly on Mrs. Lawrence’s 
cheek — perhaps it was at the delicate compliment 
from the girl; then with a sudden, nervous touch 
her hand felt for the rose on her breast. She laughed 
and bent its fair head backward to admire its glori- 
ous beauty. “It is beautiful, very beautiful !” she 
said, half dreamily; then suddenly the delicate stem 
snapped and the rose fell at her feet. 

With a cry, almost of pain, she stooped and 
raised it. 

“How did I do it?” she exclaimed, holding the 
bruised flower a little from her. Then Margaret 
saw her glance, as if some power had drawn her 
eyes involuntarily there, toward her husband. The 
man’s black eyes were turned full upon his wife. 
A sinister smile rested in them. Instantly all the 
tender sweetness died out of the woman’s face. 

“I am a little nervous tonight, I believe,” she 
said, turning again to address her companions, with 
all trace of her late emotion gone from her voice. 
“I was not feeling well when I came. Now that I 
have used up my false energy my head reels 
slightly.” She pressed her hand to her brow. 

“Why not step out on the rear veranda a few 
moments?” suggested Margaret. “It is not cold and 
the air will help you, I am sure.” 

“The very thing,” replied Douglass with alacrity. 
“Allow me to help you, Mrs. Lawrence.” 


no 


AN EVENING OUT 


Out under the clear, starlit sky, away from the 
ceaseless hum of conversation, she sat down in a 
rocker and leaned her head wearily upon her hand. 
Margaret took a seat by her side. 

“A little stimulant will brace you, Mrs. Lawrence. 
May I bring you some?” asked Douglass. ‘‘The 
Major has a good supply of every kind on hand, 
you know.” _ She nodded! assent and he steppjed 
through the window into the room. 

“Can I do anything to make you more comfort- 
able?” ventured Margaret, laying her hand caress- 
ingly upon the fair head, shimmering like spun gold 
in the moonlight. 

“No, thank you; you are very kind,” was the list- 
less answer. “I think if I were home I would feel 
better. They are all so tiresome, so meaningless 
to me — these affairs,” and Margaret could see the 
misery in the blue eyes. She would have answered, 
but Douglass appeared at the open window. He 
stepped over to them and handed Mrs. Lawrence 
the glass in his hand. She drained the contents with 
feverish eagerness. 

“Thank you, very much. I will feel better now, 
I am sure. I wonder if our carriage is here yet. It 
is after eleven. Mr. Lawrence gave orders for its 
return at about that time.” 

“I will see,” Douglass said, “if you really feel 
you must go.” 

“Yes,” she replied, “T think it would be best for 
me. I need rest.” 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


hi 


He vaulted lightly over the low rail and walked 
down the driveway. 

The two women sat in silence. Then, at the far 
end of the veranda, just where it rounded out at the 
drawing-room, a man and woman came suddenly 
into view. Their backs were toward the two> spec- 
tators, but Margaret knew the petite form of the 
Major’s wife and she recognized the man as Mr. 
Lawrence. 

Unaware of the presence of others, they stood 
conversing in low tones for a few moments. The 
light from a window fell aslant them. The woman’s 
face was raised coquettishly to his. Margaret 
caught the familiar low, rippling laugh; then she 
saw Lawrence bend down toward his companion 
and press her to him with a reckless laugh. 

His wife must have been a witness to the scene, 
but she gave no sign. Margaret, horrified, stole a 
glance at her. The white lids fluttered down over 
the blue eyes as she did so. When she looked again 
toward the fatal spot, the two were just disappear- 
ing from view. 

'There is Mr. Douglass, is it not, Miss Stewart?” 
inquired Mrs. Lawrence with consummate calm. 
Margaret struggled to reply, but her throat felt as 
though held in a vice. 

"The carriage is here, Mrs. Lawrence,” called out' 
Douglass. Mrs. Lawrence arose from her chair 
as he came up. "Thank you so much,” she said. 
"Now one good turn deserves another, does it not? 


1 12 


AN EVENING OUT 


I do not think I will go in again. Would you mind 
bringing me my carriage wrap — a blue one. The 
maid will hand it to you.” 

“I consider it a pleasure beyond compare to be of 
service to you,” he answered gallantly. 

“Miss Stewart, I am so glad to have met you and 
extremely sorry that I have behaved in such a 
fashion. I hope our friendship may be continued,” 
said Mrs. Lawrence, as Douglass, returned with the 
wrap, was placing it over her shoulders. She held 
out her hand to Margaret. It was icy cold, like the 
hand of the dead. 

“O, it shall be continued, Mrs. Lawrence,” was 
the* warm response. “Come to see me very soon, 
will you not?” 

“I certainly shall.” Then Douglass took Mrs. 
Lawrence’s arm and saw her to her carriage. 

When he returned Margaret and he went back 
into the room. As they walked into the hall beyond 
Margaret saw among the gay throng her hostess 
and Lawrence in laughing conversation. 

“I wish to speak to Lawrence a moment, Miss 
Stewart; will you come?” asked Douglass. 

A feeling of revulsion swept over her, yet she 
knew she must not give way to its dictates. 

“Certainly,” she answered, but her voice sounded 
strangely hard to her own ears. 

“Your wife was taken ill, Aubrey,” remarked 
Douglass, as he stepped up to him. “She felt she 
better go home, since the carriage was here. I was 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


ii3 


at her service in your absence. Mrs. Dearborne, 
she wished me to express her regrets that she had 
to leave in so unceremonious a fashion/’ 

“111! and I not know of it? O, how can I ever 
forgive myself! Why did you not come to me?” 

“It was unnecessary to disturb you, Mrs. Dear- 
borne. I hunted up the Major and he gave me a 
glass of wine for her. She felt better after that.” 

“O, I am so glad, but — I wish I had known about 
it,” repeated the sympathetic little body. “Excuse 
me, will you? Some one beckons. Mrs. Chatterton 
wishes to see me.” 

Lawrence looked after the airy figure with an 
expression that made Margaret shudder. She 
saw, too, that he was considerably under the influ- 
ence of liquor. He turned to Douglass, an ugly 
scowl upon his brow. 

Margaret intuitively withdrew a few steps. 

“Damn her!” he muttered between his closed 
teeth. “Damn her, I saw. What does she want to 
stir up such a commotion for? She’d like to get 
me home at chicken hours, I suppose. It’s no go, 
and she should know it. That little trick doesn’t 
cut any ice with me.” He broke out into a hoarse 
laugh and turned on his heel. 

Two hours later when Douglass was bidding 
Margaret good night he said: 

“Ah, by the way, Miss Stewart, have you seen 
a bit of Vanity Fair tonight, do you think?” 

“It’s all so strange,” she returned. “I cannot 
understand it yet.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 


WEARIED. 

ARGARET arose the next morning' 
with a feeling of weariness entirely 
novel to her. Her fitful sleep had been 
filled with confused dreams in which 
she seemed to figure as a bewildered 
spectator of Pandemonium. The men 
and women of her night visions 
mocked hjer with their horrid, grinning 
faces and diabolical laughter, as they 
floated past into airy nothingness. Once, attempt- 
ing in her fright to free herself from the embraces 
of some maudlin phantom, a cry of terror escaped 
the tightened muscles of her throat. The sound 
penetrated the recesses of her own brain; on the 
instant the eerie vision faded 1 and Phillip, smiling, 
tender, seemed to stand before her, upon whose 
breast she fell to weeping. 

The effort waked her, and she found her lashes 
wet with tears, her hand still clutching at her aching 
throat. When she sank to sleep again it was only 
to repeat the scene or one yet more hideous, and she 
was relieved when the first faint streaks of morning 
stole through her open window. 

After an evening of dissipation her cousins were 
not accustomed to partake of the morning meal at 




A MODERN PATRICIAN 


ii5 

the regular hour, and Margaret was much surprised 
when, shortly before the rising bell was rung, there 
came a hurried tap at her door and Yzabel's voice, 
amazingly awake for such an unseasonable hour, 
begged admittance. It was granted, and Margaret 
glanced in curious amazement at the dishevelled 
figure before her. 

“You think my wits have gone wool-gathering, 
thus to invade your sanctum so unceremoniously, 
my fair cousin? No, no, listen! I have a story to 
unfold that will fill you with astonishment. I’m 
engaged ! — engaged — engaged ! Did you ever know 
such luck? ‘Out* only one season and younger than 
Katheryn. I can't believe it myself. I've said it 
over at least ten thousand times in the last hour." 

To state that Margaret was truly surprised at 
the breathless outburst was putting it mildly. In- 
deed, she had to look very hard at the figure sitting 
on the side of her bed, and just then in an attitude 
of ecstatic reflection, before she could assure herself 
that Yzabel was not still under the influence of Mrs. 
Dearborne's cooling mixture. 

“Why don't you congratulate me on my good 
fortune?" asked Yzabel in a half-injured tone. 
“That is what I came in for. Don't stare at me like 
an owl. Katheryn's too jealous to admit she is 
awake. I simply hammered on her door this morn- 
ing, yet she never gave the least sign that she 
was alive. Elinoir doesn't care, of course, for she 
isn't 'out' yet. She's rather glad of the prospect of 


n6 


WEARIED 


having a room to herself in the near future. I told 
mamma last night, though it was so late." 

Yzabel paused, and Margaret seized the opportu- 
nity to answer her cousin's question of at least two 
minutes since. 

“I will congratulate you on your good fortune 
when I understand more about it. You have not 
even mentioned the gentleman's name, Yzabel. 
Who is he?" 

“I can't see that his name has anything to do 
with your congratulations; but if you need it, listen! 
Mr. Chatterton! Poor little unsophisticated kitten, 
how surprised you look! Wouldn't you ever really 
have guessed it?" 

“No, I do not believe I ever should," Margaret 
returned. 

“O, he is one of the best catches in Beechdale. 
No great riches — which of course is a matter to be 
regretted— but one of the best families in the vil- 
lage. They can go back — let me see — O, I don't 
know how many hundred years ; but an ancestor of 
the Judge was one of the signers of the Declara- 
tion of Independence, and Mrs. C-hatterton's great- 
grandmother came over in the Mayflower. Dear, 
I do wish I had my ring to show the girls. Fletcher 
is coming this morning to ask mamma's consent. 
Now it's your turn to talk, Margaret. Rattle away! 
Tell me what you think of it all." 

“Why, all things being equal, I think you are 
to be congratulated most heartily, Yzabel." But 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


ii 7 

Margaret had that strange smile in her eyes which 
her cousins could never quite make out. 

“Equal? What do you mean, Margaret?” asked 
Yzabel perplexedly. 

“This: If Mr. Chatterton is equal in every way 
to his noble ancestry by whom you seem to rate 
him, and if you are positive that you are suited to 
each other and that you care a great deal for each 
other, I think the chances that you will be happy 
in your new life are very favorable.” 

Yzabel dropped her eyes and began toying with 
the lace on her sleeve. Then she gave an impatient 
toss of her head and laughed with palpable embar- 
rassment. 

“Stuff and nonsense! What a prude you are, 
Margaret; always trying to probe into the heart of 
things. Love is a very uncertain quantity, my dear. 
It is not nearly as popular as it was in our grandn 
mother's day. People are growing smarter and 
they find it is better policy to deal in substantiate 
than in airy nothings. One must marry into wealth 
or family, or both, which is still better. I dare say 
Fletcher and I will get along beautifully — as well 
at least as his father and mother. They never speak 
to each other unless it is absolutely necessary. But 
that is lots better than to be sparring continually. 
O, don't look so horrified. Half the married people 
in society do not care two raps for each other. It's 
a fact. But they get along swimmingly. When they 
come to the point where they just cannot endure 


n8 


WEARIED 


the pressure longer, they separate for a year or so. 
Mrs. Chatterton has been in Europe a year or 
more several different times. When Phoebe and 
Sara were at boarding school she was in Paris for 
two years. Both the Judge and she have a good 
rest that way, you see. Dear! I wish I had my 
ring. I — there! that's Katheryn's cough, isn't it? 
She'll have to answer, now. Good-bye!" 

And with Yzabel's abrupt departure Margaret 
was left to ponder upon the advanced system of 
philosophy promulgated by a disciple of the present 
School of American Aristocracy. 

“Will Katheryn be down?" inquired Mrs. Lans- 
downe later, when the available members of the 
family were seated at the breakfast table. 

“I tried to get her up, mamma, by telling her all 
about Fletcher and how it came about, but she was 
just as cross as could be," answered Yzabel 
promptly. “Do you know, the horrid thing said 
that Fletcher was too muddled last night to know 
whether he was proposing to me or some other 
girl. The very idea! She wanted him herself; that 
is the trouble. She need not accuse Fletcher of 
taking too much! She would better look at herself. 
She and Mr. Boskin made a bet, mamma, as to who 
could drink the most champagne punch. Katheryn 
drank seventeen glasses!" 

Mrs. Lansdowne, who did not seem to be particu- 
larly interested in Katheryn's extraordinary powers 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


1 19 


of imbibition, inquired with some degree of curi- 
osity as to the result of the bet. 

“Who won?” 

“Why, Katheryn! We all thought it was a huge 
joke on Mr. Boskin not to hold up his reputation 
better than that. Every one decided, though, that 
he was a little more top-heavy than Katheryn. By 
the way, mamma, Mr. Boskin is the j oiliest fellow, 
and he just can’t do enough for a girl. He bet 
Katheryn a five-pound box of Huyler’s chocolates. 
I hope she will be generous with it.” 

Mrs. Lansdowne put the morning paper before 
her face to hide a half-suppressed yawn; then she 
glanced keenly at her niece for a second, but made 
no further comment upon her daughter’s novel ac- 
complishment or new-won laurels. 

The preparations for Mrs. Lansdowne’s ap- 
proaching tea, to be given in honor of her debu- 
tante daughter, was now occupying all the spare 
time of the family, and after breakfast Mrs. Lans- 
downe and Yzabel became deeply absorbed in their 
work on the quest list, which seemed to be the duty 
most pressing. 

Elinoir had promised to be at Madame Renaud’s 
at half past nine, but not having sufficiently recov- 
ered from the gayeties of the previous evening, 
Margaret was importuned to bear her cousin’s ex- 
cuses to Madame. 

Margaret was only too glad to breathe the de- 
licious autumn air and to find herself, for a while 


120 


WEARIED 


at least, free from the interminable chatter of her 
aunt and cousins. She left them deep in a discus- 
sion as to the advisability of inviting or not certain 
personages of Beechldale whose eligibility to the 
inner circle might be still questioned. 

She found Madame out of sorts, and Elinoir’s 
excuses were not received very graciously. 

“That is the way,” she cried excitedly, “but if I 
disappoint it is a crime! These people want their 
finery at a certain time whether they are here to 
be fitted or not. I go nearly wild sometimes, with 
all I have to do, and what is the gain!” 

“O, Madame, how beautiful! how divine! how be- 
witching!” Then off they go in the carriage, and I 
am supposed to live on their fine words!” 

Margaret was too astonished at the passionate 
arraignment to interrupt the angry modiste. At 
last, from sheer breathlessness, she came to a mo- 
ment’s pause. 

“I’m sure, Madame,” Margaret said, “my cousin 
would feel very bad if she knew her not coming 
had so inconvenienced you. I think, too, you must 
be mistaken as to her expectation that you advance 
her work as if she had been here.” 

“O, you do not know with what I have to con- 
tend! I have the best trade, but I have to pay 
the penalty. Look at this!” The irate woman 
pointed to an open letter which lay on a table. 
“That came this morning from one of your fine 
ladies — a leader in society. Her name is in every 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


121 


charitable affair given. I see it in the papers. She 
is in all sorts of schemes to help the poor, but she 
owes me a bill of three hundred dollars, and has 
been owing it for a year. She writes that it will not 
be convenient to pay it till after the holidays. They 
must all go away for the summer, and I work night 
and day to get them ready, yet I could not collect 
enough money to take me to New York to see the 
styles. If I should tell them I did not go, I would 
lose my trade; so I have to lie about it, stop work 
for a week and hide.” 

Suddenly Madame's irritability exhausted itself, 
and, dropping her head in her trembling hands, she 
burst into tears. Misery never appealed in vain to 
Margaret Stewart. The girl laid her strong, tender 
hand upon the bowed head. 

“I am very sorry for you/’ she said, her sweet 
young voice vibrant with sympathy. “ Y ou are over- 
worked, nervously ill. Take a little rest from it all, 
can you not? Everything will look much brighter 
then, I am sure.” 

The woman raised her tear-drenched eyes a mo- 
ment. “Rest! rest!” she repeated wildly. Then a 
look of frightened inquiry expressed itself on her 
face. 

“O,” she said, wringing her thin hands, “I was 
beside myself when I said what I did. I was tired, 
so tired and discouraged. I should not talk so of 
my patrons. How would I live without them? I 
do not know what made me do it — unless it was 


122 


WEARIED 


your eyes. They seemed so kind and pitiful. I was 
so wretched — so wretched! O, you will not say 
anything of this to Mrs. Lansdowne, will you? It 
is all a lie — a lie. She is a lovely lady, and so are 
all her daughters. Tell Miss Elinoir to come to- 
morrow.” 

“I shall not repeat our conversation to any one, 
Madame, and I shall try to forget it myself. I am 
too sorry for you to do anything to make your 
burden harder to bear. It must be very, very wear- 
ing — this constant planning and trying to please. 
I wish you might rest before it is too late.” 

“Rest!” repeated Madame again, this time with 
a little incredulous smile. Then the bell announced 
another customer, and Margaret withdrew. 

For the first time in her young life, as she gazed 
upon sky, tree, hill and valley, she seemed to hear 
nothing but the echo of the world’s misery and 
pain coming to her. For the first time amid the 
exultant throb of existence everywhere, she felt 
alone. 

When she reached home Yzabel came to her with 
sparkling eyes and imparted the startling intelli- 
gence that Fletcher was with mamma in the library, 
and that she was to have her diamond on the mor- 
row! 


CHAPTER XV. 


A LETTER. 

HEN Margaret reached her room she 
found a letter on> her dressing table. 
The address was in Phillip's hand. The 
thoughts that had so recently harassed 
her vanished instantly on the joy of 
receiving a letter from home. With 
trembling eagerness she opened it and 
read : 

My Dear Cousin: 

According to a solemn promise to let you know 
regarding both our mental and physical condition, 
and also the state of the ‘‘crops," I herewith indite 
these few lines. Not to itemize, I will say that 
everything is thriving at Clover Farm, though of 
course things do not seem exactly the same without 
you. 

Before I go more than a line or two further I 
must disclose a secret, for I cannot, as you very well 
know, keep one worth a cent. I have decided at 
last to go to Grangely Medical College at Leyton! 
Now it is out! 

The very day you left I received' a letter from 
Uncle Howard again offering me the money neces- 
sary for this year's schooling. He insists that if I 



124 


A LETTER 


will not accept it as a gift that I will as a loan, pay- 
able any time before the next century closes. 

I want to hear all about that new life you are 
leading and how you like it. I am longing for one 
of our good old-fashioned talks. 

I fear that should I lengthen my letter I would 
be in danger of having no news when I come to 
Beechdale, in which case I should be driven to the 
desperate extremity of giving the floor to you, 
which would never do in the world. 

Your father sends, of course, his best love, and I 
humbly subscribe myself 

Your devoted cousin, 

Phillip Vail. 

P. S. — T will make a bee-line for Beechdale as 
soon as I have paid my respects to my future “alma 
mater.” 

The first emotion after reading the letter was one 
of joyous delight in the anticipation of Phillip’s 
coming to Leyton; but the very next moment she 
reproached herself heartily for such supreme selfish- 
ness, for she thought of the many lonely evenings 
her father would have to spend without Phillip’s 
congenial company. 

When Margaret returned down stairs Mr. Chat- 
terton had left and Yzabel was already in raptures 
over the contemplated trousseau. Mrs. Lansdowne 
had betaken herself to one corner of the library and 
was in the midst of writing the news of her darling 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


125 


YzabeTs engagement to her dearest brother-in-law, 
Mr. Frederick William Lansdowne. 

Mrs. Lansdowne possessed a most vivid imag- 
ination, and, during the last few minutes, had really 
wiped several drops from her light lashes while 
describing how her mother’s heart was torn into 
shreds, as it were, in giving that irrevocable word 
of consent to the nuptials ; yet she had also to con- 
fess that this same organ of feeling, in spite of the 
cruel laceration it had received, was buoyed up, at 
least temporarily, by the fact that Mr. Chatterton 
was a person entirely worthy of the honor which 
would accrue to him in marrying the niece of Fred- 
erick William Lansdowne. 

While Mrs. Lansdowne would have been made 
twice glad had her daughter married millions and 
family, she was content, amiable, little body, to have 
gained one of the world’s prizes, and she piously 
trusted the Lord and Mr. Frederick Lansdowne for 
the other. 

After she had finished the letter to her satisfac- 
tion Mrs. Lansdowne read it aloud for her daugh- 
ter’s approval. This was given with such sponta- 
neous enthusiasm that she could not but feel a 
permissible degree of pride in respect to her epis- 
tolary abilities. In fact, after the reading of that 
letter the self-esteem of the entire family had been 
quite materially augmented, and Katheryn, who had 
now become quite reconciled to her younger sister’s 
expectations, broke in with “Mamma, I do think we 


126 


A LETTER 


should be very careful about inviting the Billing- 
smiths. It will, of course, necessitate a close inti- 
macy, and we know nothing about their family. 
Mrs. Winthrop told Phoebe the other day that Mrs. 
Billingsmith’s father came from Ireland and was 
then just a carpenter, though of course he has be- 
come a contractor since.” 

Mrs. Lansdowne lifted her white hands with a 
deprecatory gesture. 

“A common carpenter! The family of a carpenter 
received in high society!” she exclaimed. “What 
are we coming to?” 

Margaret's ideas of high society and eligibility to 
the same were so pronouncedly opposed to those 
just extended that she could not refrain from giving 
expression to them. 

“Why, Aunt P'rances,” she said in a tone of sur- 
prise, “have you forgotten that the Savior of man- 
kind was a carpenter? Yet he was confessedly the 
light which broke through the darkness of that 
corrupt age. I do not mean that by virtue of his 
humble employment he was the grandest character 
that ever lived, but in spite of it; and he has become 
the goal toward which all humanity has striven ever 
since.” 

Mrs. Lansdowne felt the unanswerableness of the 
argument, and was proportionately irritated in con' 
sequence ; however, she took care not to give her 
annoyance visible expression, and returned quite 
saucily: 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


127 


“If you are not a socialist, my dear, believing all 
men to be on the same social plane; what, pray, is 
your line of division ?” 

“Do not suppose for an instant, Aunt Frances, 
I deprecate the power of either wealth or high birth, 
in so far as they are instruments to develop that 
which is best and noblest in us. But surely these 
are not to be considered the just makers of caste. 
If wealth has aided in the attainment of true cul- 
ture, it has served its noblest and indeed its only 
legitimate purpose; if ancestral virtues have in- 
spired us to a worthy emulation, then they have 
been righteous instruments; but let a man present 
himself to society, unheralded by either — as he has 
made himself. Let him rise or fall by virtue of his 
own attainments. I think this could not be called 
socialism, but democracy, true and undefiled, and 
the divine right of every American.” 

Margaret’s feelings on the subject might have 
led her further, but she had the wisdom to know 
that good is often neutralized by being carried to 
undue lengths. She concluded that she had given 
sufficient prominence to her opinions, for the pres- 
ent at least. An expressive silence followed the 
words, and she herself broke it by changing the sub- 
ject of their late discussion. 

“I received a letter from my cousin, Phillip Vail, 
this morning, Aunt Frances. You have heard me 
speak of him. He writes that he has arranged to 
finish his medical course at Grangeley this winter.” 


128 


A LETTER 


Almost instantly the bored and provoked expres- 
sion on the countenances of her aunt and cousins 
vanished 

“He will be at Leyton in a few days,” she added, 
noting amusedly the effect of her words. 

“How lovely,” exclaimed Elinoir, radiant at the 
news. “How old is he, Margaret? Is he hand- 
some? Will he call to see you as soon as he 
comes?” 

“He is twenty-eight,” responded Margaret, smil- 
ing good-humoredly, “and — yes, I think you might 
call him very good looking, but that you will have 
to decide for yourselves when you see him; good 
looks in the concrete are, I fancy, a mere matter of 
individual taste after all. He promises to find his 
way here at the earliest opportunity.” 

“Well, I hope you’re not engaged to him, are 
you?” Elinoir exclaimed, looking at her cousin with 
suspicious scrutiny. 

To Margaret this question wa§ so highly absurd 
that she gave a ringing peal of laughter. 

“The very idea! Engaged to Phillip,” she ex- 
claimed “Why, Phillip is just like a brother to 
me. He has lived with us, you know, for nearly two 
years, and we have known each other ever since 
we were children.” 

The conversation was inter rputed right here by 
the maid announcing that Mr. Douglass’ coachman 
had just come with a note to Miss Stewart which 
required an immediate answer. 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


129 


Margaret, not a little surprised 1 , took the note 
and read it through. 

“Aunt Frances,” she said after finishing it, “Mr. 
Douglass has invited me to visit Chateau Bluff to- 
morrow afternoon. Will it interfere with any of 
your plans? He says his sister, Mrs. Pierson, and 
a friend will accompany us.” 

Mrs. Lansdowne flushed slightly, but she made 
a supreme effort to take the news calmly, as though 
it were nothing out of the ordinary; but, that Mar- 
garet should, with only one evening's acquaintance, 
have made such startling inroads in Mr. Douglass' 
good graces was not a fact to be received with per- 
fect equanimity. She saw no way, however, of ad- 
justing things more as she would desire them, so 
she answered quite affably: 

“Go by all means, my dear. There could be no 
possible reason for opposing such an engagement, 
especially when others are in attendance. Write 
Mr. Douglass that you will be delighted to accept 
his invitation. Here is paper and ink at your dis- 
posal.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 


HEALTHY CONTRAST. 

S Douglass walked home with Margaret 
the evening of the Dearbome affair the 
conversation had turned 1 incidentally 
upon the places of local interest in 
Beechldale, and he had) spoken of 
Chateau Bluff as one of them well 
worth the seeing. 

The owner of the chateau, a carver 
of wide reputation, was reputed to be 
one of the most eccentric of men, and when Doug- 
lass saw how his account of him aroused Margaret’s 
interest he determined, then and there, to take an 
early opportunity for satisfying it. 

This girl fascinated him by her fresh, natural 
beauty, the utter absence of anything like affecta- 
tion, and above all by her very evident culture. It 
was a new experience this — not to be flattered and 
simpered at. It was really delightful, he thought, 
to turn into bed refreshed; to fall to sleep with an 
honest smile on his face. 

“It takes some of the conceit out of one,” he had 
mused as he lay on his pillow that night, “to meet 
a girl who does not seem at least to care a rap 
whether you marry her or not.” 

Even the next morning the spell was not broken, 



A MODERN PATRICIAN 


131 

and the thought of her rushed back upon him pleas- 
antly. Though he told himself that any time within 
a week would do to plan for a visit to the chateau, 
immediately after reaching this conclusion Doug- 
lass took his horse and rode over to the home of 
the Great Carver; and two hours later found 1 him 
penning a note to Margaret. 

Though the morning arranged for the visit was 
one of typical October beauty, a strong northerly 
wind blew up in the afternoon and soon great 
patches of gray cloud began to shut out the bril- 
liant blue of a few hours before; but as there was 
apparently no immediate danger of disagreeable 
weather, the pleasure excursion was not postponed. 

Margaret was more than delighted when she 
found that the “friend” whose name Douglass had 
omitted to mention in his note was Mrs. Lawrence, 
and the haughty, almost austere manner of Doug- 
lass’ sister, Mrs. Pierson, was compensated for by 
the cordial reception of the sweet singer of Beech- 
dale. 

Mrs. Pierson, much to Margaret’s relief, sat with 
her brother, who had installed himself as driver on 
this occasion, which arrangement placed Margaret 
beside her new friend. 

Margaret was enchanted with the ever varying 
scenes before her as they rode along. Douglass, 
feigning an interest in something which they hads 
just passed, turned and stole a glance at the rapt 
face of the girl behind him. It seemed almost cruel 


132 


A HEALTHY CONTRAST 


to break the spell that bound her, but curiosity ob- 
tained the better of kindness, and he said: 

“Miss Stewart, if I had not had the opportunity 
of knowing the reverse, I might conclude you were 
demure as any little Quakeress; ‘a penny for your 
thoughts/ as they say.” 

She started. “Ah, it is quite unpardonable to be 
so oblivious to one's friends, but” — turning her 
glowing face toward him — “after all, a penny cannot 
buy my thoughts, I am afraid.” 

“No? Well, perhaps I might be persuaded to be 
more magnanimous. We might take up a collec- 
tion, too. My sister is good along that line. What 
rs your price, Miss Stewart?” 

She answered laughing: “To tell you the truth, 
money could not buy them, Mr. Douglass; now I 
am sure you think me dreadfully conceited, do you 
not? But I can hardly claim possession of them 
myself, you see. It was more of a feeling that held 
me, I think. Nature has always had a strange, in- 
describable power over me. She seems to weave 
a sort of spell about my senses. I cannot think; I 
only feel. Perhaps, though, the deepest sentiments 
of the soul can never find human expression. They 
are as spirits; when you try to lay hold of them 
they vanish. Does it not seem so, Mrs. Pierson?” 

A half amused smile rested upon Douglass' face 
as Margaret addressed his sister; but the girl did 
not notice it. Mrs. Pierson looked bored. She 
had never been on particularly intimate terms with 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


133 


that intangible part of hlerself — the soul. During 
the Lenten season she kept up a sort of “hide and 
seek” game with it, but the result was never es- 
pecially profitable. After such special seasons of 
spasmodic introspection she was inclined more than 
ever to doubt whether she could prove conclusively 
that she really possessed the animating principle. 

“I can’t say, Miss Stewart” (Mrs. Pierson pro- 
nounced it cawnt — she revelled in the broad ‘a’), 
that I have ever heard things ‘unspeakable/ ” 

Mrs. Pierson had a very short upper lip, and it 
was abbreviated now more than usual. It gave an 
expression of polite disdain to an otherwise expres- 
sionless face. Mrs. Pierson was proud of this lip. 
It had come down to the present incumbent through 
four generations. Sir Dustan Douglass, knighted 1 
by King James V. for killing, in a drunken bout, a 
particularly cherished enemy of his royal Highness, 
had possessed, according to an ancient portrait, a 
similar lip ; and it had come straight down, without 
any appreciable modifications, through all the suc- 
ceeding generations of Douglasses. The Douglass 
lip, therefore, was a possession of which to be 
justly proud. 

Margaret read intuitively the contempt for her- 
self in the older woman’s face, and she was greatly 
relieved when Douglass annnounced: 

“Here we are at the Crossing! You can just see 
the top of the chateau to the south there, Miss Stew- 
art. The ground begins to rise now as we ap- 


134 


A HEALTHY CONTRAST 


proach the bluff.” He checked the speed of his 
prancing bays in view of their long climb. 

The house stood upon an eminence some seventy- 
five feet above them. Across the foot of the bluff 
and just beneath the chateau had been built a mas- 
sive stone wall. At one end of the wall was a most 
imposing entrance, formed 1 by two magnificently 
carved pillars of stone, between which swung a 
high double iron gate. 

Here Douglass drew rein, and quickly securing 
his horses, helped the three women to alight. 

“Helen,” he said, turning to his sister, “I will 
take the carriage yonder to Marley’s. You might 
walk on, perhaps. I will be with you before you 
have gone half the distance. Take your leisure; 
the climb is rather tiresome when one is not used 
to it.” 

The grounds of Chateau Bluff gave evidence of 
no cultivation whatever, though one possessed with 
artistic sense could see how, with little care, they 
could have been made very attractive. The wild 
growth which had evidently covered the slopes in 
many places during the summer might, at that sea- 
son, has improved the prospect somewhat; but 
now only grey and leafless stalks covered those por- 
tions which nature had relinquished (as if grudg- 
ingly) for a scanty crop of iron and rag weed, 
thistles and creeping crab-grass. 

The party had not proceeded more than half way 
up the gravelled path winding toward the summit, 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


135 


when they heard Douglass’ strong, clear hallooing 
from the gate. They stopped and waited until he 
reached them. 

“Now,” he said, laughing and panting from his 
exertion, “here is a problem in, shall I say, eco- 
nomics? — to so dispose of my two arms that I may 
help you three ladies up this path.” 

“I will aid you to solve it instantly, Mr. Doug- 
lass,” replied Margaret. “Take your sister and Mrs. 
Lawrence on either side of you and let me forth- 
with give you an exhibition of what a country girl 
can do,” and before Douglass could raise an objec- 
tion, the girl’s tall, lithe figure went swinging up 
the thirty-five feet before them with all the grace 
and ease of an Apline maiden. 

When she reached the top she halted until the 
others came up. 

“O, Mrs. Lawrence,” said Margaret, looking at 
the white face of her friend, “you need just this 
kind of exercise. You cannot imagine, unless you 
have tried, how much one gets out of it.” 

Margaret’s eyes were sparkling with the delight 
of her climb, and her cheeks were brilliant with 
throbbing blood. 

“Yes, I envy you, Miss Stewart,” replied Mrs. 
Lawrence wistfully, “for being the possessor of such 
perfect health.” 

“You and nature seem to be very fast friends,” 
added Douglass. 

“Very indeed,” she answered gayly. “I cannot 


136 


A HEALTHY CONTRAST 


tell the time when we were not; she has been a very 
gentle nurse. 

“And Nature, the dear old nurse, took 
The child upon her knee, 

Saying: “Here is a story-book 
Thy Father has written for thee” 
quoted Douglass. 

“O, why do you not finish it?” she cried. 

“Come wander with me, she said, 

Into regions yet untrod, 

And read what is still unread, 

In the manuscript of God.” 

“That is the most beautiful part of the whole 
poem!” 

“Whom are you and Miss Stewart quoting, Mal- 
colm?” asked his sister with just the slightest per- 
ceptible curl of the Douglass lip. “Not Browning, 
I am sure.” 

“No, Helen, I am sorry to say your inestimable 
brother actually finds thoughts suited to the Doug- 
lass intellect, now and then, in such mediocre writ- 
ers as Longfellow and other ordinary home talent.” 

“Have you ever read Browning?” asked Mrs. 
Pierson, ignoring her brother’s good-natured sar- 
casm. 

“Yes, last winter, father, my cousin and myself 
spent many a long winter evening with him. He is 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


137 


fascinating beyond most writers, I think. There is 
a beauty and power, however, in some of our own 
poets that touch the human heart and give it as 
noble impulses as anything that was ever written. 
But the paths to greatness are many and diverse, 
and I am too much of an American, I am afraid, for 
conservatism even in literature.” 

“O, Miss Sitewart,” broke in Douglass, “there 
isn’t the least particle of use to waste that precious 
logic on my sister. She is a devotee at the shrine 
of Browning, now and forever, world without end; 
and no place but the old country can produce writers 
worthy of mention.” 

Mrs. Pierson’s face flushed hotly at her brother’s 
remarks, but she did not deign to make reply. 

They had been resting during this conversation 
on the first of a flight of broad stone steps leading 
up to the chateau. Douglass now ventured to pro- 
pose an advance. 

“O, yes,” cried Margaret, springing up, “I am 
so anxious to see inside,” but her eyes detected an 
unusual pallor in Mrs. Lawrence’s face. Something 
impelled her to put her arm in supporting tender- 
ness around the slender waist. Douglass and his 
sister were just at the moment a little distance from 
them. 

“Are you tired, dear?” she asked softly, looking 
into the blue eyes, filled with a misty sadness. 

“Not now; the long walk made me so at first.” 
Then with a little effort to appear more cheerful: 


I3« 


A HEALTHY CONTRAST 


“I have not had the advantage of being a wild rose, 
you see. Hot house plants are never robust, I 
think." 

Then Margaret felt — or was it imagination? — 
that Mrs. Lawrence shrank ever so slightly from 
her clasp, and the blue eyes shifted uneasily before 
the pitying glance bent upon them. Margaret 
withdrew her arm, a little pained that her advances 
were not received more cordially; and so they 
passed up the steps side by side. 

The chateau was built of smooth stone, with the 
exception of a small space over the door. This was 
of greyish plaster and modeled in bas relief. The 
design, a flock of birds, showed such exquisite skill 
of execution that both Margaret and Mrs. Law- 
rence gave enthusiastic expression to their admira- 
tion. Douglass then lifted the hammer of the 
carved knocker and curiosity was immediately satis- 
fied in seeing the door opened by the master him- 
self. 

For many years gossip had been busy with the 
name of the Great Carver, who, with his mother- 
less child and maiden sister, were the occupants of 
this unique home. Those who had never seen him 
were doubtless prepared to find one whose eccen- 
tricities of manner and thought had made their im- 
press upon his outward appearance; but in this they 
were always disappointed, Margaret and Mrs. Law- 
rence among the rest. 

The man who stood before them and who was 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


139 


bidding them a cordial welcome to the little com- 
pany was dressed in a grey tweed suit made after 
the regulation mode and harmonizing well with the 
iron grey of hair and beard. His features were 
rather small, finely cut and regular. The only pe- 
culiarly noticeable part of his physiognomy was a 
pair of bright, piercing eyes, the one blue and the 
other brown. They seemed ever on the alert, be- 
holding every movement, anticipating every in- 
quiry. His manner was genial, his voice low and 
even, and when he smiled, which he frequently did, 
there was displayed a set of well-preserved and 
glistening white teeth. 

The room in which they first found themselves 
was large, occupying in length the central portion 
of the structure. The walls were of rough plaster 
tinted in varying but blended shades of cobalt, and 
around the room was a base-board of tulip wood 
nearly two feet deep and completely covered by 
surface carving. The ceiling was unlathed, and 
joists of the same wood were ornamented with 
borders of geometrical design. 

“Are any of you ladies musicians?” inquired the 
host, smiling; “if so, this piano is at your disposal.” 

He pointed as he spoke to an instrument standing 
in an opposite corner. The case was of ebony, 
carved and inlaid with beautifully tinted woods. 

“It is like many lives,” he continued more seri- 
ously, “it will sometime I fear, lose the power to 


140 


A HEALTHY CONTRAST 


produce, because no hand ever disturbs its long 
repose.” 

Margaret smiled incredulously; his keen eyes 
noted it. 

“You do not think the point well taken, Miss 
Stewart?” 

“The piano,” she replied, “is not to blame for its 
silence. It is powerless in the handis of an un- 
toward fate; but a life at least may be master of its 
circumstances and its environment. It should take 
care that its strings are constantly under the touch 
of a master hand.” 

“You may be right,” he said reflectively, “it is 
not according to the philosophy I have held, how- 
ever. But to my question once more — do not 
some of you play?” 

“Mrs. Lawrence, can you withstand such an ap- 
peal?” asked Douglass. “You may be the pre- 
servation of that instrument.” 

“Do try; it would please him,” whispered Mar- 
garet . 

Mrs. Lawrence turned to Margaret with an ex- 
pression on her face that seemed to say, “I will 
try; I want to please you.” Audibly she said, turn- 
ing to the Great Carver: 

“I do not play, except accompaniments. Would 
you like me to sing for you?” 

“It would please me beyond expression,” he 
said, bowing low. 

She drew off her gloves and stepped to the in- 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


141 

strument. Her white fingers swept the ivory key- 
board almost automatically and there issued forth 
the sweetest, mellowest of tones. Then the singer’s 
voice rang out in a plaintive little Scotch air. 

The last notes seemed to tremble and float away 
like wounded spirits among the gloomy rafters. 

“You have given me untold pleasure/’ said the 
Great Carver; “this house has never been blessed 
by the Spirit song. I think it will always abide 
here,” he added with solemn conviction in his tones. 

For an hour more they lingered among the som- 
ber, almost oppressive .grandeurs of the chateau, 
which, in spite of all the massive beauty presented 
at every turn, lacked the element which makes 
home. 

“How dreadful you would feel if any misfortune 
should deprive you of all this labor of years,” re- 
marked Mrs. Pierson. “I suppose you would' never 
have the courage to duplicate it.” 

The Great Carver smiled and showed his glisten- 
ing white teeth for an instant. 

“I am peculiar, madam, in that respect,” he an- 
swered. “On the contrary, none of these things 
from the least to the greatest, have now more than 
commercial value to me. A thought comes; it 
would be agony could I not express it. I take mate- 
rial and carve upon it the language of my soul. I 
am relieved as one is who speaks a message with 
which he has been entrusted. It may please my 
fancy afterwards, or it may not; but henceforth it 


142 


A HEALTHY CONTRAST 


is no longer a part of myself. The vital union be- 
tween me and my work is dissolved immediately 
upon the completion of my task.” 

They stood looking out of a large window af- 
fording a fine view of the river and the hills that 
stretched beyond it, growing indistinct now in the 
distance. A leaden sky and wild wind made the 
spot seem more bleak and desolate than ever. 

As the Great Carver ceased speaking a rude blast 
threw wide open the great double doors at the en- 
trance. The four visitors started. Minds already 
influenced by their weird surroundings are in a con- 
dition most conducive to a belief in the supernatu- 
ral; menacing faces seemed to lurk in the shadows 
of every corner, and the carved dragons and painted 
Furies stood with knowing eyes. 

Margaret shivered involuntarily at the cold emp- 
tiness of the landscape. She withdrew from the 
rest, and wandered toward the dining-room, where, 
at that moment one golden bar of quivering sunlight 
had forced an opening through a jagged rift in the 
leaden battlements of the heavens. It split into a 
thousand scintillating shafts against the carved tiles 
of brass and copper which faced the broad fireplace ; 
it lighted up by its reflected brightness the metal 
plates and trays upon an antique table. 

Suddenly a knock — a timid knock it was — came 
from a door leading out of the dining room. Mar- 
garet was not of a nature to be startled easily, but 
such surroundings could but be oppressive even to 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


I 43 


as buoyant a temperament as hers. She was about 
to retrace her steps and join the others, when she 
became aware that Douglass was by her side. 

“I came to see where my guest of honor had 
slipped/' he said pleasantly. “Are you ready to 
go? The sun has nearly set. Darkness will be 
with us in a little time." 

Before she could answer the knock came once 
again, but this time more decided, followed 1 by a 
slight opening of the door. A little black-eyed, 
frowzy-headed boy peeped in at them. He did not 
see the object of his search and threw a frightened 
glance upon the occupants of the room. 

“What do you want, dear?" asked Margaret, her 
heart instantly going out in one bound of pity for 
the lonely little figure standing there. 

Was it a strange potency in the girl's glance as 
her eyes met his which drew the child to her as a 
magnet draws its affinity? He dextrously eluded 
Douglass' detaining hand and buried his head in 
the folds of Margaret’s dress. She bent over him 
and whispered something in his ear. 

“I'm lonesome," he said, with infinite pathos in 
his voice. “I want my dad. Dad! Dad." 

The last word ended in a wail. The ear of the 
Great Carver heard the cry of his child, and came, 
and from his heights of mental isolation he tried to 
comfort the little lad; but the distance was very 
great to span. The aged steps had strayed far from 
the fair courts of human sympathy and love, and it 


144 


A HEALTHY CONTRAST 


was doubtful whether they could ever wander back 
again. 

But the child clung passionately to his father’s 
knees and 'looked up hungrily into) his father’s 
eyes. The Great Carver smiled benignly and his 
hands — those selfsame hands that had called forth 
the souls of wood, of silver and of brass — were laid 
upon the curly head. 

And so they left the two. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


COMING OUT. 

HE Lansdowne household was a very 
busy one nowadays, and between the 
preparations for Elinoir’s “coming out” 
and the ever increasing social obliga- 
tions of the now fully initiated season, 
there was little time left for private 
meditations; however, in spite of this 
constant domestic agitation the ex- 
pected arrival of Phillip Vail was not 
allowed to fade entirely from the mind's of two, at 
least, of the family, who had not as yet experienced 
the rare good fortune of being “settled in life.” 
Each spent not a few of her idle moments in con- 
ducting highly intellectual and incomparably witty 
conversations between herself and Phillip Vail and 
both solemnly and unblushingly affirmed that they 
were madly, desperately in love with him. 

Four days passed by, however, without further 
word from Phillip. On the morning of the fifth 
there arrived a note for Margaret posted at Leyton 
the evening before. It had the immediate effect of 
sending both Katheryn and Elinoir into esctatic 
raptures. “Read it quick, do, Margaret, and tell 
us what he says,” demanded Elinoir. “Does he 
write when he will be here? Today? O, ye gods! 



146 


COMING OUT 


such fortune. A new man in Beechdale! Can it 
be true?” 

Katheryn being the eldest of the family and, 
doubtless, feeling for the time the dignity of her 
seniority, was a little less demonstrative than her 
sister. 

“Margaret, I hope you will not deceive us and 
take him yourself, after all,” said Elinoir, looking 
her cousin squarely in the eyes. “There is no use 
wasting our time, if you are. You’ll get Malcolm 
Douglass, perhaps — he’s a splendid/ catch. You 
might give your cousin to us. Tell us the postive, 
honest truth, Miargaret! Do !” 

Margaret did not know whether to be indignant 
or amused at the inquiry. She felt inclined to be 
both; indignant, that her word should be ques- 
tioned when she had already eased their minds, as 
she had thought, upon the vital subject of preown- 
ership; amused, at the surety with which they 
seemed to dispose of Phillip, body and soul, with- 
out considering for a moment his own individual 
taste in the matter. The allusion to Douglass, at 
th<*t time at least, had little consideration. 

“I thought I told you once, Elinoir,” she an- 
swered with just the slightest hint of impatience in 
her voice, “that nothing serious exists between 
Phillip and myself; that we have known each other 
from childhood,* that nothing could be farther from 
the thought of either. Please never mention it 
again.” 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


147 


Convinced for the present, Katheryn and Elinoir 
rattled on, each trying to persuade the other of the 
hopelessness of her suit. Both determined, how- 
ever, to watch their possible rival closely. 

Later Mrs. Lansdowns, meeting her niece in the 
hall, manifested her own interest in the affair by 
lquiring: 

“Dear, how long did you say it would be before 
your cousin finishes his course ?” 

“One year, he hopes, Aunt Frances.” 

Mrs. Lansdowne passed on, in her usual airy 
fashion, to another subject, but the question was 
too suggestive a one for as discerning a mind as 
Margaret not to place upon it a private interpreta- 
tion. It was evident to her that Mrs. Frances 
Lansdowne was acting the part of a zealous and 
prudent parent. 

At four o'clock that afternoon, when the girls 
were together in the library, Maud, who was in her 
usual place at the window, suddenly announced the 
welcome tidings that a young man whom she had 
never seen before — awfully swell-looking — wearing 
dark gray trousers and felt hat to match — but 
with no cane, just an umbrella, with a wooden 
handle, was coming up the walk. 

This rather disconnected description brought all 
parties to the window, and Margaret confirmed 
their conjectures. It was Phillip, at last — the long 
expected, the desired. A few minutes more and he 
was with them. 


148 


COMING OUT 


After a warm handshake and a brotherly kiss be- 
stowed on Margaret, which was quite approved by 
Katheryn and Elinoir as boding no danger to their 
budding hopes, he greeted most cordially the 
Misses Lansdowne. Much to YzabeFs chagrin, 
young Chatterton had put in an appearance some 
fifteen minutes before Phillip, and she was obliged 
to be contented with hearing hiis tones now and 
then as they floated to her, sitting, with not a little 
impatience, in the reception room beyond. 

Phillip was received instantly into the bosom of 
the family, and both Katheryn and Elinoir made 
every effort to have him feel himself a welcome 
guest. But, after a half hour or more on the De- 
lectable Mountains, their happiness was brought 
to a sudden end by Phillip announcing that his call 
would have to be abbreviated because of an en- 
gagement which he was obliged to meet shortly. 
It being a delightful afternoon, Phillip suggested 
that his cousin indulge hler love for outdoor exer- 
cises and take a little stroll with him. 

Margaret acquiesced with joyful eagerness, and 
as she withdrew to prepare for her walk Mrs. Lans- 
downe made her appearance. 

“We feel quite as if you were an old acquaint- 
ance, Mr. Vail,” she remarked, holding his hand in 
the privileged manner of a matron of forty-five. 
“We have heard so much of you from dear Mar- 
garet, and we rrust love anvone belonging to her, 
you know. She is such a dear, dear girl !” 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


149 


“Perhaps Mr. Vail does not know whom you 
mean by ‘Margaret/ ” suggested Katheryn, and 
then, before she was able to enlighten him, Mrs. 
Lansdowne, to the horror of her two daughters, 
proceeded to explain the little discrepancy. 

“You see Pearl is a lovely name, Mr. Vail, a 
sweet, lovable, pet name, you know, but hardly 
suited to young womanhood. We have ventured 
to change it to the more dignified one for which 
it stands. My niece appreciates the alteration, I 
think. She is moving in a quite different circle 
now from that to which she has always been accus- 
tomed. She shows great tact, however, in adapting 
herself to the new order of things.” 

Phillip’s blood' boiled at the patronizing tone 
which Mrs. Lansdowne had almost unconciously 
assumed tin attempting to make clear to him 
her estimate of Margaret’s cleverness. He smiled 
a comprehensive smile, which mean many things, 
and indicated, by a slight inclination of the head, 
that he understood her meaning. 

Margaret, entering the room at this point, the 
subject was pursued no further. 

“Are you ready?” asked Phillip;, rising. “I’ll 
have to ask the pardon of these ladies in taking you 
off in so unceremonious a fashion, but I am quite 
sure they will excuse a brother’s eagerness to tell 
his sister of all his newly formed schemes and de- 
liver a few special messages from home. Will you 
pardon this seeming rudeness, Mrs. Lansdowne? I 


COMING OUT 


150 

am quite sure you would all be insufferably bored 
had you to listen to my accounts of the cat and the 
newest kittens; the flower-beds, and Janet’s rheu- 
matism, tog-ether' with mv cousin’s homilies on 
economics, industry and the dangers of a great 
city.” His brown eyes had such a merry twinkle 
in them, his manner was so altogether charming 
that Mrs. Lansdowne forgave him on the spot of 
every sin he had committed, while Katheryn and 
Elinoir fell more deeply in love than ever. 

“Dear,” called Mrs. Lansdowne, as Margaret and 
Philip were starting, “we would be delighted to 
have Mr. Vail dine with us tomorrow evening,” and 
Phillip brought instant joy by a hasty acceptance. 

“Isn’t he divine, mamma?” cried Elinoir, clasp- 
ing her hands in a tragic manner. 

“Do you think he is in love with Margaret?” 
inquired Katheryn with more practical forethought. 
“I certainly do not want to waste any time if he is 
already a victim of Cupid’s dart.” 

“To that, my dear, I cannot give a decisive an- 
swer,” her mother answered. “I do not see any 
particular indications of it, however. He is certainly 
a very superior young man, one any girl might be 
proud of. Elinoir, my love, I think you should give 
way to your older sister in this matter. She has 
been out two seasons now and you are only just 
entering society. 

“Mamma, Mr. Boskin seems captivated by Kath- 
eryn and if she works her cards well she can get 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


151 

him this season, I am positive,” reasoned Elinoir, 
not willing to give up the game so easily. 

“Don’t be in such haste to choose for me, Elinoir. 
I’ll do that for myself, please. Katheryn Lans- 
downe is looking a little higher than Mr. Boskin,” 
was the answer. 

"■Well, cut out Phoebe Chatterton and take the 
rector, then. You are too slow, Katheryn. I wager 
I will be married before I am out three seasons.” 

"I haven’t been out three seasons,” angrily. 

‘'Well, you will be unless you mend your temper 
as well as your ways and I do not intend to give 
you the doctor, so there! I have just as good a 
right to him as you have,” and with this parting 
thrust Elinoir, flushed and determined, swept from 
the room and left her mother to calm the turbulent 
passions of her eldest daughter. 

"Perhaps when you are married and have daugh- 
ters of your own, Katheryn, you will know the awful 
strain a mother has to undergo in such matters,” 
quavered Mrs. Lansdowne in answer to Katheryn’s 
complaint of allowing Elinoir to do as she pleased. 

"You know as well as I do that I show no par- 
tiality, Katheryn,” continued the poor lady in an 
abused voice, "and I am sure the best interests of 
all is my only wish. I think, though, as Elinoir 
says, you give in too readily, my dear. You cer- 
tainly made no special effort to be agreeable to Dr. 
Harcourt when I invited him to dinner a few Sab- 
baths ago, and I thought he seemed quite attentive. 


152 


COMING OUT 


Phoebe Chatterton just clings to him like a parasite. 
I d'o not believe he has any serious intentions what- 
ever. Depend upon it, it is all on her part. Try 
to be a little more affable the next time you meet 
him, Katheryn. He is a very cultured gentleman — 
there is no denying that — and you are quite worthy 
of him, I am sure.” 

“I think, mamma, I would make a better minis- 
ter's wife than Phoebe,” observed Katheryn, a little 
mollified. 

“Yes, dear, so do I,” replied her mother with axi 
alacrity born of a sure conviction. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


U/jq NEW NAME. 

ND so my cousin has changed her 
name,” remarked Phillip, after having 
exhausted all the news of Cloverdale 
and answered Margaret's countless, 
eager questions about home. They 
were strolling slowly down the broad 
avenue side by side. Phillip smiled 
broadly and significantly as he spoke. 
“Not to you, Phillip — not to you!" 
she answered quickly. 

A pleased expression passed over his face. 

“So 1 am to be favored! Well, I will try not to 
disgrace you in public, at any rate. Your aunt was 
very frank about it all. She explained the change 
immediately and gave me to understand that your 
former appellation was rather out of date — in other 
words, I suppose it would have so shocked society 
that ostracism, or at the best a cold contempt, 
would have been your portion." 

Though this explanation of the matter had never 
before been given to her, Margaret had all along 
suspicioned the truth of the garbled explanation of 
Elinoir on the day of her arrival. It was with the 
greatest difficulty that she could keep back the ex- 
clamation of triumph to which one always desires 



154 


THE NEW NAME 


to give expression, when his previous opinions on 
a matter have been confirmed; but respect for those 
under whose roof she was dwelling, and the fact 
thait in spite of all their failings they were yet her 
relatives, kept her from disclosing even to Phillip 
their foolish deceptions. Therefore she only an- 
swered: 

'‘The most abject slaves we have today, Phillip, 
and those to be pitied most are they who are bound 
hand and foot by the opinion of others. No slaves 
of the South had less power to guide their actions 
by their own decisions thian those who live only by 
the mandates of Dame Fashion. But, Phillip, let 
me tell you” — and her voice took on a still more 
serious tone — "this life which I have entered is so 
new, so strange, so far removed from my true self 
that I am glad, in fact, to keep from its associations, 
everything that belongs to what I really am. It is 
as if I were taking a part in some great play.” 

"And is your play tragedy or comedy, or can you 
tell?” he asked. 

"It seems as though it were comedy to those who 
ought to know,” she answered. "I, from the few 
times I have been on the boards, would unhesitat- 
ingly pronounce it tragedy ; perhaps I am mistaken. 
I really should not say for I have not seen the end, 
you know. Real tragedy should close with disaster, 
should it not?” 

"All I ever knew of, yes. But laying aside fig- 
ures, Pearl, what really is your estimate of all this 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


I 55 


glittering show? Do you not care for it — this 
broader life He looked as though he would read 
her inmost soul. 

“Phillip” — there was no sign of trifling in the dark 
eyes that turned their full and steady light upon him 
— “you remember one reason that brought me here; 
perhaps it was an unworthy one — a girlish vanity — 
but I wanted to prove to my relatives that I, though 
a country girl, knew intuitively how to conduct my- 
self in other spheres of social life beside my own; 
that true lady might be found among the fields as 
well as in 'marble halls/ I wanted to show Aunt 
Frances that it is not these fields nor yet the simple 
life that brings discredit upon the tillers of the soil, 
but they who dishonor it, and Phillip” — she threw 
her head back proudly while the rich color surged 
in cheek and brow — “I have, I think, proved it to 
them ; but I am learning a lesson, too. It is a great 
lesson. I have only just begun, yet I seem to see 
the end.” 

“When I return to Cloverdale it will be, I hope, 
with -greater heart. I would rather have our country 
folk as they are — ignorant, shiftless, many of them, 
but honest — than like these whom I have lately 
come to know; whose lives are being lived accord- 
ing to social rules, yet who seem to be so absolutely 
careless of all higher claims. The one class is quite 
as undeveloped as the other. Only the point of view 
is different. Both lack that which makes for sym- 
metry of character.” She looked at him as if, for 


THE NEW NAME 


156 

confirmation of her words. Before he spoke, she 
read it in his eyes. 

“You have diagnosed with skill the condition of 
the body politic/' he said. “I believe that the great- 
est menace to our commonwealth today is not the 
ignorant turbulence of its common people, but the 
secret corruption, body and soul, of those who 
style themselves the flower of the nation. Some of 
the very crimes which are cried against, and right- 
ly too, when committed by the despairing, or open- 
ly depraved have their counterparts, though safe 
from the eye of human law, among those of exalted 
rank. But their crimes are not hid from an aveng- 
ing God. They are not the result of ignorant pas- 
sions or abnormal physical development, but of 
cold, calculating, base desire for ease and pleasure. 
The sacredness of home is invaded with an incon- 
siderateness not to be found in worse degrees 
among the hopelessly corrupt. Vice walks tri- 
umphantly, disguised in the trappings of wealth 
and position," 

The girl gave a little inarticulate gasp of pain. 
“Phillip, Phillip, as bad as that?" she cried. An ex- 
pression of remorseful pity passed over his features. 
“I should not have uttered such words in your 
hearing," he said penitently. “What right had I to 
stir up your pure soul with such disclosures! Re- 
member, though, I was not speaking of individuals 
but of a class — a class too who vaunt themselves 
the noble of our land; many of the lineal descend- 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


IS 7 


ants of those whose blood made this country of 
ours consecrated ground, yet who resemble their 
ancestry only as the shadow does the substance. 

They were walking slowly along the beech- bor- 
dered avenue which was in places almost ankle deep 
with autumn leaves. Every now and then a little 
gust of wind tumbled a fresh supply of burnished 
splendor upon their heads. 

Phillip ceased speaking to take in the beauty of 
it all — the magnificent vista in front where, as far as 
eye could 1 reach, two unbroken rows of trees 
stretched on until at last they seemed to merge in 
one hazy filigree against a background of reflected 
gold and purple. They both stood silent, reverent 
worshippers at nature’s shrine. 

Suddenly Margaret lifted her hand and placed it 
upon the arm of her companion. 

“Phillip,” she said, “do you remember when last 
we saw a sunset together?” He turned his head 
quickly and touched the slender fingers with his 
own. An expression of dim yearning crept into 
his eyes. 

“Could I,” he replied. “It was our last evening 
stroll together and the one that made you decide 
upon leaving three cranky -people to get along the 
best way they could without their patron saint of 
the hearth.” 

They both laughed a little half sad, half happy 
laugh that was drowned by the clatter of a horse’s 
hoofs just behind them. They turned. At the same 


THE NEW NAME 


158 

moment the animal was quickly reined in and a 
voice familiar to Margaret called out. 

“Good evening, Miss Stewart. Are you also en- 
joying this glorious autumn afternoon ?” It was 
Malcolm Douglass. 

“You know my failings, do you not, Mir. Doug- 
lass ?” she returned gayly. 

“I think you must be one of the banished wood- 
nymphs of this region, returning to your old 
haunts/’ he said admiringly. He slipped from his 
horse and advanced toward Margaret and her com- 
panion. 

“Mr. Douglass,” she said, “let me introduce you 
to my cousin, Mr. Vail. Phillip, one of my new 
friends.” 

“Very happy to meet any one belonging to Miss 
Stewart,” returned Douglass, grasping Phillip’s 
hand most heartily. “Came to see how the barbar- 
ians in this neck of the woods treat her?” 

“I am quite satisfied as to the treatment she has 
received so far,” responded Phillip. 

“One cannot overcome such a Juno as she is, in 
so short a time,” returned Douglass with a laugh. 
“I did not know Miss Stewart had relatives about 
here beside her aunt and her family.” 

“I have just arrived at Leyton. I am attending 
the Medical College. 

“O, is that so,” answered Douglass. “I hope 
then to meet you often. I welcome you most cordi- 
ally to Beechdale.” “Thank you,” replied Phillip. 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


159 


Then he added 1 : "I think I better try to catch this 
next car to Leyton. It is after five, Margaret.” 

A furtive look of amusement passed between 
fthem as Phillip after a second’s pause uttered her 
new name. “I will be up to-morrow evening to 
dinner. Good-bye.” Then he shook hands with 
both Douglass and Margaret and walked quickly 
down the avenue to get an east bound electric car 
to carry him to Leyton. 

Something impelled him to turn and look back 
just as he reached the comer. The two were stand- 
ing as he had left them. Margaret was patting the 
handsome steed and he saw Douglass lift his hand 
and place it down beside hers. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


PHILLIP. 

RS. LANSDOWNE’S family dined at 
six, and by five o’clock, on the evening 
following Phillip’s call, the Misses 
Lansdowne were in the throes of ex- 
pectancy. To make it the merrier and 
to show Phillip honor withal, the girls 
had very generously decided to share 
their new acquaintance with the young 
people from the Chatterton residence; 
so it was quite a jolly party which later were seated 
about the convivial board, and) from her point of 
vantage the fond mother could watch the effect of 
the swift charges of feminine artillery directed 
against the fortification of Phillip’s heart. 

During his twenty-eight years Phillip Vail had 
had few opportunities for social life. He knew no- 
thing of the trago-comic earnestness with which the 
matrimonial game is played; indeed he had not the 
remotest idea that this very evening he himself was 
the prize for which several fair ones present would 
be willing to stake their all. 

“I understand, Mr. Vail, this is your last year of 
medical study. I suppose you will begin practis- 
ing at once. I am sure you will succeed.” 

Mrs. Lansdowne concluded to open the conver- 



A MODERN PATRICIAN 


161 


sation by directing the general interest to her guest 
of honor. It would result, she thought, in lifting 
him in his own estimation, naturally there would be 
a rebound of gratitude toward herself. 

“I hope so, Mrs. Lansdowne,” he replied, “if 
fortune be so favorable to me.” 

“Do you know, Mr. Vail, I have always had a 
perfect penchant for studying medicine,” exclaimed 
Katheryn, with a most honest glow of enthusiasm 
burning on either cheek. Mrs. Lansdowne felt that 
her daughter had effected a brilliant coup d'etat. 
'She cast an approving glance in her direction. 

Katheryn encouraged by parental approbation 
waxed warmer. 

“I said the other day,” she continued, “(Sara I be- 
lieve it was to you or perhaps to Phoebe, was it?) 
that I had the greatest notion in the world to study 
medicine, just for the pure love of it, you know. I 
think every woman should have a practical knowl- 
edge of it, do you not, Mr. Vail?” 

“You are quite mistaken, Katheryn about your 
mentioning the fact to me,” broke in Sara with sar- 
castic sweetness. “I never knew you cared a pin for 
anything of the sort.” 

“Nor I either, Katheryn; it must have been our 
ghosts you confided in,” supplemented Phoebe. An 
audible smile went around the table. 

Elinoir shot an exultant glance at her adversary. 

But Katheryn’s equanimity was not to be over- 
thrown in so slight a skirmish. 


1 62 


PHILLIP 


“Am I mistaken,” she asked in unruffled tones. 
“O, well it does not signify to whom I said it, you 
know. It was to some one far more substantial thait 
a ghost, you may be sure, Mr. V ail. But you have 
not answered my question yet; I suppose you can- 
not even recall it,” in injured tones. 

“O, yes, Miss Lansdowne; 1 am not so forgetful 
as that. He was too polite to hint he had not found 
an opportunity until then to express himself. “Yes, 
I think a woman should know enough about medi- 
cine to keep her from losing her head in times of 
emergency. I hardly think, though, I should ap- 
prove of her going, except in rare cases, through a 
medical course, however. I can never advocate a 
woman stepping out of her sphere which is peculiar- 
ly her own to which she was born. In my mind it 
is extremely perilous to her sweetness, her noble- 
ness, and her womanliness whenever she does. I 
do not say that it is an impossible feat, but there is 
great danger connected with its successful accom- 
plishment. It changes character. It is the Rubicon 
across which women of this age are but too prone 
to go.” 

Katheryn felt that her wit had not served her 
well. A little grieved expression settled around the 
corners of her mouth for Phillip's benefit. He 
saw it. 

“Miss Lansdowne, I hope I have not. seemed to 
ruthlessly trample on your aspiration. I was led by 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


163 


your question into a broader discussion of the sub- 
ject than was necessary, perhaps. Pardon me.” 

The grieved expression vanished immediately 
and Katheryn gave him a look which signified en- 
tire forgiveness. 

“Speaking about medicine,” ventured Mr. Chat- 
terton from his seat at the end of the table, “I 
thought of being a physician myself at one time — a 
Specialist, you know — eye, ear and throat. It was 
eye, ear and throat wasn’t it Phoebe? By jove! 
I’ve almost forgotten myself.” M'r. Ohatterton gave 
vent to a little fragmentary laugh. “Had to drop 
the whole thing on account of my health, though. 
Too great a strain on my nerves, too great entirely. 
Took up law instead. My father is Judge Chatter- 
ton, you may have heard of him, Mr. Vail. Law 
'comes quite naturally to our family. My grand- 
father was judge of the Supreme Court for twelve 
years.” 

In the general conversational buzz which broke 
forth at this point in Mr. Chatterton’s panegyric on 
his ance story, Sara. Chatterton leaned over to in- 
form Phillip that Fletcher being so abnormally sen- 
sitive in the presence of suffering, could not endure 
the horrible sights so often to be encountered. 

After dinner the party gathered in the library, 
there to await several other guests invited for the 
evening, and in the course of another hour Mr. 
Douglass, Mr. Boskin and the Reverend Harcourt 
arrived. 


164 


PHILLIP 


Miss Phoebe in spite of Katheryn' s blanishing 
overtures drew the rector to a tete-a-tete chair in 
the corner, and Katheryn with disappointment in 
her heart and a smile on her lips went over where 
Phillip stood being entertained by the elder Miss 
Chatterton. He was listening to Sara's review of 
the previous evening's performance of La Tosca. 

“Do you know I refused to go at first," she was 
saying as Katheryn came up, “so many persons 
criticize it severely. I was honestly afraid to be seen 
there, but I was persuaded at last. Mrs. Dearborne 
chaperoned Phoebe and me to the matinee, and we 
had a delightful time. O, by the by Mr Vail you 
must meet Mrs. Dearborne. She is the most ador- 
able, delicious, little morsel of humanity imagina- 
ble. She is very much younger than her husband, 
the Major. He fell desperately in love with her and 
so it is another case of an old man's darling. She 
is German by birth and has the most fascinating ac- 
cent. M'y father and the Major are very great 
friends. They both belong to the Society of the 
Sons of the Revolution. Are you eligible, Mr. 
Vail?" 

“I am entirely unable to answer your question, 
Miss Chatterton. I really do not know whether I 
am eligible or not. I have never looked the mat- 
ter up; but my father once said to me — I have 
never forgotten it — ‘Phillip, do not be so inflated 
over the fact that you were born as an American, 
rather glory that you live as one.' There is a great 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


165 

truth in that advice, I have always felt. It is the 
creed of democracy in a few words.” 

“You are quite right, I believe, Mr. Vail,” Kath- 
eryn hastened to say. “That is a creed well worth 
having and living up to.” 

Sara gave a little defiant toss of her head. “I am 
really broken hearted that I cannot agree with both 
of you,” she said. “You see I have been brought 
up on entirely different principles. Creeds are all a 
matter of education at any rate. We believe what 
is taught us and reflect the sentiments and ideas of 
our teachers. But, I entreat, Mr. Vail, please let 
us not talk in such serious vein. I am dying to sam- 
ple some of that punch yonder. Is it claret tonight, 
Katheryn? Yes? O, what joy!” 

Phillip politely offered his services and the three 
started off leisurely toward the hall. 

Margaret had been monopolized by Douglass 
since the latter’s arrival. Several times Katheryn’s 
jealous eye had noticed Phillip’s glance resting up- 
on the two. When Sara was drawn into conversa- 
tion with Mrs. Lansdowne who mingled with the 
young folks now and then, Katheryn remarked to 
her companion: 

“We are all so in love with Margaret, Mr. Vail. 

I do not know how we will ever be able to do with- 
out her. The men have lost their hearts at first 
sight. Mr. Douglass is her veritable shad'ow. Ai 
confirmed bachelor, too. Look there, Mr. Vail — 
really don't you think they make a most charming 


i66 


PHILLIP 


(pair?" She looked into his face with a provoking in- 
sinuating smile. 

“I had not thought of it in that light, especially," 
he returned lightly. “I think my cousin, however, 
one of the handsomest women I have ever met and 
certainly Mr. Douglass need not be ashamed of his 
looks." If her words had wounded, there was no 
visible sign. He looked at Margaret and Douglass 
as he spoke, with the interest only of a casual ob- 
server. 

Some one suggested a dance. Elinoir, who had 
been consoling herself with Mr. Boskin in a se- 
cluded spot on the stairs heard it. She jumped up 
and rushed excitedly toward Margaret. 

“O, Margaret, dear, do play for us, you darling. 
I'm perishing for a dance. I haven't trippe4 the 
‘light fantastic' since — let me see — since night be- 
fore last at Dr. Winthrop's." 

“That is a long seige of privation,," laughed Mar- 
garet. “I certainly could not have the heart to re- 
fuse you. What do you want — a waltz?" 

“O you're just as sweet as can be; don’t you think 
she is Mr. Douglass?" 

“Indeed, I do/' was the reply given with a little 
more fervidness perhaps than such a remark called 
for. 

Margaret went over at once to the piano and in a 
few moments five couples were whirling away to 
the delightful notes of a Strauss melody. Phoebe 
Chatterton clung to the minister, who gazed with 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


167 


spiritual tenderness upon the face reposing- on his 
clerical shoulder. Katheryn, however, was repaid 
later on by feeling herself, for the first time in her 
life, encircled by the arms of Malcolm Douglass. 
When exhaustion seemed about to invade the ranks 
Douglass laughingly whirled his companion over 
toward the piano when they stopped — 

“Miss Stewart,” he said, leaning over her, “you 
must certainly be tired if we are. We should not 
impose on good nature, do you think so, Miss 
Katheryn? I wish I couldl take your place, but I 
can’t.” 

Katheryn took the hint, then upbraided herself 
the next moment for a hasty and foolish determina- 
tion to please him. 

“I’ll play, Mr. Douglass, though I am afraid it 
will not be a very acceptable exchange. Shall I 
give you a new two-step?” 

“Yes, anything,” he answered. 

“I am not tired, really,” protested Margaret, let- 
ting her hands rest lightly on the key-board. Still, 
she arose, though Douglass said nothing more and 
Katheryn took her place. 

The suspension of the music had brought the 
other dancers to a full stop. Phillip, with Sara 
Chatterton, had almost reached the piano when 
Katheryn began playing. In a moment the gayety 
was resumed. 

Margaret’s eyes met Phillip’s once as they passed 
each other. Somehow even in that momentary 


i68 


PHILLIP 


glance she thought the light had faded from them. 
A sudden pain struck her heart. She wondered if 
she had been unkind. She remembered that she 
had hardly spoken to him since dinner and he a 
stranger, too — dear Phillip ! She was so filled with 
these remorseful thoughts that she was hardly 
aware Douglass was speaking! to her. 

“Do you know?” he was saying, “I have not 
danced for a year till tonight? Doesn’t that seem a 
long period of denial?” 

She nodded her head. 

“But was it really a denial?” she asked. 

“What a cross-questioner! No, it was not!” he 
said with honest frankness in his tones. Then si 
lence fell between them. They stopped. Margaret 
saw Phillip standing with his back to her and talk- 
ing to Elinoir and Mr. Boskin. 

“O,” she cried abruptly, “I am afraid I have been 
neglecting my cousin, Mr. Douglass. Let us go 
over to him now.” 

“Certainly;” then as they walked slowly across 
the room, he asked — “may I have the pleasure of 
taking you to Leyton to attend the services at Trin- 
ity? They are to give the Holy City tomorrow. I 
believe you said you were fond of oratorical sing- 
ing.” And she answered “Yes, I should be de- 
lighted.” 

“Phillip,” she said, as they stood a little apart 
from the others, “we have hardly visited at all to- 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


169 


night. It doesn't seem natural, does it? I don’t 
like it.” 

“Don't you?” he said, eagerly, his face glowing 
with sudden pleasure. “Well, neither do I, but 
never mind; we can make it up, you know. By the 
way, Cranston, my roommate, tells me they have an 
up-to-date preacher at his church. Would you care 
to go into Leyton, Sunday?” 

“I would love to Phillip but — but — ” 

“O, never mind if you have made another engage- 
ment,” he said, all the eagerness of the moment be- 
fore dying out of his voice. She noted the change, 
too. 

“I'll ask Mr. Douglass to release me Phillip. 
Another time will do. He only — ” 

He caught her almost roughly by the arm as she 
turned to speak to Douglass. 

“Not for anything! It would be considered un- 
pardonably rude. It would take all the pleasure out 
of it for both of us. Believe me, it is all right, 
relally, another time will do* for us as well.” He 
was smiling at her now. 

“Well!” she answered, as if only half convinced. 
“But I am disappointed, Phillip.” Her lip quivered 
as he had seen it do when he had hurt her uninten- 
tionally. Then Elinoir felt it incumbent upon her 
to call Margaret's attention to a witty remark of 
Mr. Harcourt who had joined the group. 

Phillip excused himself somewhat earlier than 


170 


PHILLIP 


the rest and Margaret followed him to the door on 
pretext of asking him a forgotten question. 

“Phillip, are you sur£ you have forgiven me?” 
she asked. 

“Can there be forgiveness where there was never 
any fault? Don’t think any more Pearl of that.” 
He smiled and lifting his hat went down the steps 
into the night. 

But Pearl was only half satisfied with the words. 
She lay awake for an hour or more that night re- 
calling Phillip’s disappointed face. 

And Phillip Vail, when he found his room empty 
and a note pinned to his collar box from Cranston 
saying he had gone to spend the night with a friend, 
turned his light out and lay for hours upon his bed, 
face downward. Just as the bell of St. Mary’s 
Church opposite pealed out three echoing strokes, 
he sighed and murmured hoarsely: 

“Lost! Lost! my Pearl of greatest price!” 


CHAPTER XX, 


MARGARET’S ERRAND. 

ARGARET, my dear,” drawled Mrs. 
Lansdowne, “would you mind walk- 
ing over to Mrs. Lawrence’s to see if 
she is sure she will be able to sing to- 
morrow evening. I went there yester- 
day after the French class; she said 
then she was feeling better; but 
there is not much dependence to be 
placed in Gertrude.” Mrs. Lans- 
dbwne accompanied her last words with a frown of 
her freshly powdered forehead. 

“I should be delighted to go,” answered Marga- 
ret. I promised Mrs. Lawrence when she was here 
the other day to go over soon to see little Dorothy.” 

“Well, dear, I would be a thousand times obliged. 
You see Yzabel has gone out to consult Sara about 
her dress. She has such confidence in Sara’s taste. 
Dear girls, they will be ideal sisters!” with a sudden 
burst of anticipative satisfaction. “Katheryn and 
Elinoir are still asleep. I could 1 go, I suppose, but 
my head still aches with the extra work I had yes- 
terday in preparing my papers on Louis Quatorze. 
I think I must have read at least a dozen books on 
his life. I really thought I would lose my mind in 



172 


MARGARETS ERRAND 


deciding what to write. Did you ever study French, 
my dear?” 

“O, yes, and enjoyed it very much, too.” 

"Indeed! I did not suppose they gave much at- 
tention to French in the public schools. They make 
a specialty of it though in all private institutions. 
Maud has studied it four years already. One should 
have a French governess though to become really 
proficient. There now, I must not detain you long- 
er when I am so anxious to know about tomorrow 
night. I so want the musicale to be the crowning 
success. Don’t stay long Margaret. It is ten 
o’clock now and lunch will be served promptly at 
twelve. Dear, dear, what a weight will be off my 
poor shoulders when this affair is over.” Mrs. 
Lamsdtawne heaved! a sigh whose proportions indi- 
cated everything but present happiness. 

“O, give my best love to Mrs. Lawrence,” she 
added as Margaret disappeared from the room. 

Some indefinable influence had seemed to draw 
Margaret to Gertrude Lawrence even at their first 
meeting. Margaret, however, had felt that this new 
friend, while she was uniformly courteous and kind, 
desired no closer intimacy than that established on 
most formal basis. But lately Margaret had come 
to the conclusion that she had wronged her friend 
by a too hasty judgment, for the cordiality which 
Mrs. Lawrence now showed seemed entirely to con- 
tradict the first impressions given; and this morn- 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


173 


in g the reception accorded' Margaret by her hostess 
only strengthened the belief. 

Mrs. Lawrence dropped everything like reserve 
toward her visitor and seemed a really contented 
woman and happy mother as she fondled her three- 
year-old 1 baby girl and persuaded it to go to Marga- 
ret’s arms. Margaret asked herself perplexedly if 
this beautiful, laughing, blue-eyed woman in her 
dainty, trailing robes could be the same as she who 
had stood before her once not long ago with a 
world of hopeless woe written on her face. 

“How happy you must be, with such a darling,” 
Margaret exclaimed enthusiastically as she pressed 
the golden, baby head against her own Cheek. 

The mother smiled and bent forward. The child 
stretched out one dimpled hand and caught at the 
crimson rose that lay upon its mother’s bosom. 
“Booful? Booful? Mime!” cried the child, crushing 
the fragrant petals in her hand. They fell like drops 
of blood upon the white fur rug at their feet. 

Margaret tried to unloose the baby fingers from 
their treasure. “Oh, what a pity,” she cried and 
looked into the mother’s face. It was pale almost 
as the white gown of her baby, and in the blue eyes 
had come the old look of despair. 

With an overpowering desire to comfort, a de- 
sire born of the great pity that had been awakened 
in her breast since the hour she had first met her, 
Margaret put out her hand and laid it gently on the 


I 74 


MARGARETS ERRAND 


other's shoulder. Gertrude Lawrence shrank back, 
as though the touch had been fire ; Margaret cut to 
the heart withdrew her hand instantly. She looked 
away toward! the window and her eyes caught what 
she had not noticed before, though the perfume was 
heavy in the room, a vase of the crimson beauties. 
She wondered why with such an abundance of 
equally beautiful trasures at her disposal, the loss of 
one gave pain. She was about to remark on their 
loveliness when a gentle knock was heard at the 
door. 

“Is it you, Annette?" inquired Mrs. Lawrence. 

“It is, madame." 

The voice was unmistakably that of a French wo- 
man. 

“Come in." 

Dorothy almost sprang from Margaret's arms as 
the maid entered the room. Margaret put the little 
one down. It toddled toward the nurse and laid 
its curly head on the girl's breast. 

“Aimez-vous votre Annette?" 

The child nodded her head. 

“Comment?” inquired Annette turning the child 
toward Margaret. 

“Yes," answered Dorothy with a roguish, little 
twinkle in her eye. 

A look of determination came into Annette's . 
dark face. The child saw it and tried to run from 
the detaining arms. 

“Je ne sais que vous disez” the nurse insisted. 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


17 5 


“Aimez-vous votre Annette?” 

“ Oui ,” came the answer lisped in baby accents. 

They all laughed. Annette gave the child an ap- 
proving glance and arose with her in her arms. 

“Ah revoir!” 

“Aw-vaih,” repeated Dorothy, waiving her tiny 
hand. 

“Is it time already for her drive, Annette?” in- 
quired the mother going over to the child and kiss- 
ing the rosy lips raised to hers. 

“Yes, madam, it is late.” 

“Very well, Annette.” A little sigh escaped the 
mother's breast. “Good-bye, darling!” 

Mrs. Lawrence had gained possession of herself 
once more, though her sweet, bright mood had van- 
ished, and when Margaret said good-bye some half 
hour later, she longed, yet dared not press her lips 
to those of the sad-eyed woman by her side. 

She went home bewildered as she had not been 
before. What was this woman's history? How 
could her strange actions toward herself be ac- 
counted for? Was there some malign power en- 
shrined in a crimson rose that twice had been de- 
stroyed in her presence? A hundred wild fancies 
crowded in her brain and mingling with them al- 
ways was that scene they had both witnessed upon 
Mrs. Dearborne’s veranda. She recalled how 
strangely indifferent her companion had been to 
what was enacted there. 

It was nearly twelve when Margaret reached 


176 


MARGARETS ERRAND 


home. She was nervous and depressed. Her 
aunt’s eager voice jarred unpleasantly upon her ear. 

“Well, Margaret, will she be here? I thought 
you would never come!” 

“Yes, Aunt Frances, she said you may depend 
upon her.” 

“Is she quite well then?” 

“Quite well, I think.” 

Then Mrs Lansdbwne satisfied, lay down once 
more among her pillows and Margaret, glad to es- 
cape more wearisome questioning sought her room. 


CHAPTER. XXI. 


PREPARATION. 

ETWEEN the hours of one and three 
the following day it was certainly a 
most busy household that performed 
its various duties at the Lansdowne 
residence. Upstairs and down pre- 
vailed the wild haste that in the end 
makes waste, but which, nevertheless, 
will exist in the best regulated families 
on such trying occasions as weddings 

or teas. 

Margaret seemed to be the only self possessed 
person during this critical period, and several times 
she came to the rescue when Mrs. Lansdowne was 
on the verge of despair. But at last a well-earned 
opportunity came to escape to her own room where 
she accomplished her own toilette without the aid 
of even one attendant. When she was ready to 
emerge once more she looked a veritable queen in 
her gown of fluffy whiteness, falling in soft folds 
over its glistening slip of ivory white satin. 

“Aunt Frances said I must put one of these roses 
in my hair,” she said to herself as her hand toyed 
with a great bunch of Katherine Mermets in a vase 
by her side. How kind it was of Mr. Douglass to 
think of me. Phillip sent me bride roses the night 



178 


PREPARATION 


I graduated He thought a pearl should wear only 
white.” She smiled at the remembrance of Phillip’s 
“foolish fancy,” yet the smile was one of pleased in- 
dulgence. “Dear Phillip! Dear brother!” she whis- 
pered softly, and even with the words fastened one 
pink rosebud in her wavy hair. 

A few moments later she tapped at her aunt’s 
door and was admitted. 

“I am all ready, Aunt Frances. Can I help you 
or the girls in any way?” she inquired. 

A quick look of admiration passed over her 
aunt’s face. The pale blue eyes swept critically over 
the superb figure of the girl before her, but she 
merely remarked: “Margaret, dear, the satin is 
quite an improvement. You look well — very well 
indeed.” 

But Mrs. Lansdowne was not in a condition to 
pass many compliments. She was putting forth 
heroic efforts to enclose her twenty-five inch waist 
in a skirt several inches smaller. 

“May I try?” asked Margaret, noting her aunt’s 
futile endeavors. “You are too nervous, I am 
afraid.” 

“Yes, if you will, Margaret. Betty has just gone 
down stairs to get me a little port. Any excitement 
always makes my head swim!” explained the per- 
turbed lady. 

But even Margaret’s strong muscles were hardly 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


1 79 


a match for the task before them, and after two or 
three vain attempts she said: 

“Why Madame Renaud has made a mistake sure- 
ly, Aunt Frances. The band is at least two inches 
too small.” 

“O, let me sit down a minute,” gasped Mrs. 
Lansdowne. 

“I think I can manage it. Bring me that fan, 
Margaret? Thank Heaven! there comes Betty at 
last. Betty, see what you can do to get this belt 
fastened. It must fasten, you know. The girls 
are in the other room, Margaret. Miss Burton is 
there taking items — the society editress. She will 
want to see you, so go, my dear. She just worried 
me to death asking questions. These newspaper 
reporters are such bores, but” — resignedly — “one 
cannot keep them out. It is one of the trials of so- 
cial life.” 

Margaret found the vivacious little woman go- 
ing into ecstacies over the well-nigh indescribable 
loveliness which was confronting her on every side. 

“I understand,” she was saying, as Margaret en- 
tered, her keen, black eyes resting on the diamond 
flashing on Yzabehs left hand,” that the affair has 
a double social significance — Miss Elinoir’s debut 
and the public announcement of your engagement 
to Mr. Chatterton. Oldest son of Judge Chatter- 
ton, is he not?” 


i8o 


PREPARATION 


Miss Burton scribbled unceasingly on her note 
pad as she talked. 

“Yes,” answered Yzabel, “and the Chattertons 
are an old Virginian family, you know. One of the 
family was a signer of the Declaration of Independ- 
ence, and Mrs. Chatterton’s great grandmother 
came over in the Mayflower.” 

Margaret thought she detected a little sarcastic 
smile linking around the corners of Miss Burton’s 
mouth. However, when she had finished making a 
few notes and turned in Margaret’s direction, she 
wore the sweetest and most innocent of looks. 

“My cousin, Miss Stewart,” said Elinoir, in re- 
iponse to Miss Burton’s look of inquiry and, with- 
out further information from Elinoir, Miss Burton 
after one comprehensive sweep of her black eyes 
over Margaret, began once more her indefatigable 
note-taking. 

“Miss Burton, you have not seen the decorations 
down stairs, have you?” inquired Katheryn enter- 
ing just then from an adjoining room. “You are 
quite at liberty to go from attic to cellar, you 
know.” 

Margaret slipped across the hall to her room for 
a moment. Presently through her open door she 
heard her aunt’s tones: 

“Yes, Miss Burton, Elinoir’s is a Paris gown. 
The lace on her bodice, an heir-loom. Yes, very old 
indeed, and extremely rare. Of course, my dear, 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 181 

this must not be told outside ourselves. You terri- 
ble people do pump us so!” 

Margaret drew her breath in a little gasp. She 
remembered the day Elinoir had gone to Madame 
Renaud’s about this very dress. She passed her 
aunt and Miss Burton standing in the hall, and 
there came to her as she descended the stairs 
snatches as of an oft-repeated refrain: “Judge Chat- 
terton — old family — Declaration of Independence 
— eli gible — Soci et y of — Rev oluti on . ” 

In after days when Margaret called to mind her 
first experience at a high social function she re- 
membered details of the event which at the time of 
their transpiring were lost in general impressions. 
What at first appealed to her senses were the 
masses of pink blossoms everywhere, sending fortfi 
their almost intoxicating fragrance, the gayly at- 
tired, constantly moving throng of people and the 
penetrating sweetness of the music. 

By four o'clock, the high-water mark of an after- 
noon affair, a “crush,” was reached. The rooms 
and halls of the lower floor were crowded in some 
places almost to the point of suffocation with a 
smiling, chattering, flattering, envying, society 
mob. 

“My dear, how sweet you do look! Positively 
entrancing!” 

Margaret turned as the familiar, musical tones 
reached her ear, to see standing at her side the 
Major’s wife attired in the most bewitching of cos- 


1 82 


PREPARATION 


turtles, her face wreathed in smiles and her dainty 
gloved hands extended toward her. 

A sudden revulsion of feeling swept over Marga- 
ret, but she remembered that for the time she was 
her aunt’s representative among the guests, and 
that it was incumbent upon her to extend every 
courtesy to those invited to partake of her aunt’s 
hospitality. She therefore smiled in return and 
acknowledged the compliment. 

“I hope you are having a pleasant time, Mrs. 
Dearborne. It is rather difficult to circulate free- 
ly among so many, is it not?” . 

“O, I have had the most charming time, I as- 
sure you. Indeed, my dear, I do not mind a crowd 
in the least. I was having a little chat with your 
cousins when I happened to spy you. I said I must 
come over at once to speak a few words with my 
favorite. My dear, quick, isn’t that Mrs. Pierson 
over there with that exquisite bolero? Mr. Doug- 
lass’ sister, you know.” 

‘The lady in the black and white? Yes.” 

“Thank you ! I am so glad to be positive. I should 
like to make myself known to her. Mr. Douglass 
is such a charming man. I feel as if I should know 
his sister. She is away so much of the time and I 
am here such a little while, you see, that it has hap- 
pened we have not met.” 

Just then Mrs. Pierson moved onward and the 
conversation was ended abruptly as Mrs. Dear- 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


183 


borne fluttered away like a pursuing butterfly in a 
garden of roses. 

“Good-bye my dear! I will see you this evening 
again if not before,” she rippled back. 

Margaret felt a sense of relief when the Major’s 
wife took her departure. She was weary, too, of 
standing, and of the ceaseless treble din in her ears, 
She made her way over to a spot that for the mo- 
ment seemed to offer a breathing space as well as 
a secluded seat just back of a bank of palms. She 
had no sooner reached the desired haven, however, 
when Miss Isham and Mrs. Fiswick came toward 
her. 

“I was just saying, Miss Stewart, that we could 
not go without saying — ‘how do you do/ ” began 
Mrs. Fiswick. “What a delightful informal tea 
this is, and your cousin Elinoir is a perfect picture 
this afternoon, and Yzabel looks so radiantly happy. 
Such attractive girls, all of the sisters.” 

“Your aunt does entertain so beautifully,” chimed 
in Miss Isham. 

Then Mrs. Fiswick, wife of the one time rags and 
paper dealer (in recent years proprietor of the Aber- 
deen Stationary Co.) caught a fleeting vision of the 
wife of dear Dr. Winthrop and vanished. Miss Is- 
ham deserted thus unceremoniously, after passing a 
few more commendatory remarks on the afternoon 
affair made her way toward Mrs. Cliatterton to ex- 
tend her congratulations on the recent engagement 


184 


PREPARATION 


of her son to the niece of Mr. Frederick William 
Lansdowne. 

Mrs. Chatterton and her young aides were sup- 
posed to see to it that the guests were served to re- 
freshments as quickly and as comfortably as circum- 
stances would permit. If their efforts in that direct- 
ion, however, in any way simplified' matters, it was 
not apparent. The ability to refresh the inner man 
seemed to be porportionate only to the amount of 
tact and watchfulness possessed by the famishing 
individual. So Mrs. Chatterton, at least, felt her 
duty conscientiously performed when she lifted up 
the train of her wine-colored velvet and moved 
through the parting throng with the tantalizing in- 
quiry — “Have you been served?” But, as Mrs. 
Chatterton looked vaguely into space, no one felt 
that the question had more than rhetorical value 
and the guests waited patiently and drank cham- 
pagne punch in the interum till a break in the solid 
phalanx around the serving table could be dis- 
cerned. 

As Margaret’s eyes surveyed the gay assembly, 
thoughts far more serious than those generally in- 
dulged in on such occasions were hers. She looked 
at her aunt smiling, bowing, radiant, between 
Elinoir and Yzabel. Could this be the woman she 
thought who only a little while before was wearied 
almost beyond endurance; yet who for two mortal 
hours had been standing on that spot without a mo- 
ment’s cessation — an ordeal not to be underated — 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


185 


and was looking quite as smiling and fresh as if she 
were just beginning to greet her friends? Was the 
earlier and seemingly habitual physical state of her 
aunt entirely feigned? She could hardly think so. 
Her aunt doubtless was being supported under this 
great physical strain by the strength which enables 
even the weakest sometimes to attain the goal, when 
that goal is the gratification of a personal ambition. 
To Mrs. Lansdowne the fact that at her bidding 
were assembled the elite of Beechdale to honor the 
launching of one neice of Mr. Frederick Lansdowne 
on the social sea, and to celebrate the prospective 
alliance of another with the scion of an old and dis- 
tinguished family, filled her cup of joy to the very 
brim. She was quaffing from an elixir which could 
impart bounding life even to shattered nerves. 

Then Margaret's thoughts returned to the bril- 
liant company around her. She had seen and heard 
too much during these few hours to be deluded into 
the belief that all present had 1 come to do honor to 
their hostess. Many she knew were there that they 
might be seen of their neighbors, for in a few of 
these cases absence from social functions would 
certainly argue present and probably future exclu- 
sion. Others had come perhaps to display a new 
gown or imported bonnet or that they might judge 
whether Mrs. Lansdowne's tea could compare fa- 
vorably with similar affairs of their own. A few, as 
iMrs. Dearborne would feel the occasion an auspice 


1 86 


PREPARATION 


ous one to gain an introduction to those whom as 
yet they gazed at from afar. 

“Looking as solemn as an owl and on such an 
occasion, my dear Margarhetta!” 

Margaret started and became once more a part 
of the life about her. Mrs. Dearborne was stand- 
ing tip-toe, her hand resting lightly on the girl’s 
shoulders. 

“My dear, I must tear myself from this enchant- 
ing place.” 

“I will see you tonight; till then ‘Aufwiederse- 
hen.’ ” 


CHAPTER XXII. 


IN FASHION'S WHIRL. 



O Margaret it seemed as though one 
*TP woe trod upon another’s heels, so 
quickly did the ‘‘informalities” of the 
afternoon merge into those of the even- 
ing; still there were some redeeming 
features in the coming hours — Phillip 
had promised 1 to come and — yes, she 
would confess it — Malcolm Douglass’ 

presence would add to her pleasure. 

He was different from the other men; he seemed 
more like Phillip. 

“Dear Phillip!” 

Margaret always felt, somehow, after giving a 
few moments consideration to Douglass’ virtues, 
that she ought to do penance by reflecting with 
greater tenderness than ever upon her cousin. After 
all, though, she thought no one could take the place 
of Phillip in her heart. 

He had promised to come early but it was past 
nine when he arrived. Having paid his compli- 
ments to the hostess and her young daughters he 
turned to find Margaret. He saw her standing some 
distance from him at the other end of the room. He 
had made his way nearly to her side when the space 
was suddenly closed by Douglass. Phillip made no 
further effort to advance, but stood 1 there with that 
strange new pain tugging at his heart strings. 


1 88 


IN FASHION’S WHIRL 


Margaret was busily engaged in conversation 
and she did not see Douglass until he bent his head 
down near hers and said sotto voce. 

“Miss Stewart, I have been here a half hour and 
you have dod'ged me the whole time! ,, 

Phillip saw her start, and then, flash upon Doug- 
lass one of her rare, sweet smiles in which splendor 
of eyes, carmine of full, curved lips and dazzling 
whiteness of close-set teeth so combined, as to hold 
the recipient in thrall for the moment. 

“Dodging you, Mr. Douglass! You do not know 
me then,” she answered smiling and looking him 
full in the face. “I ; never dodige. I would rather 
meet my opponent, had I one, fairly and at once. 
Be assured,” she add^d with a little, low laugh, “if I 
had a reason for not desiring your further acquaint- 
ance, it would take only my earliest opportunity to 
let you know.” 

“I hope I shall be spared such an ordeal,” he an- 
swered almost with gravity. “I believe I should be 
•tempted to go out and hang myself!” 

“O, Mr. Douglass, don't take all this nonsense 
so seriously,” she exclaimed with a pretense of hor- 
ror in her voice. “I never cut my friends except on 
the gravest charges. You are in no danger. Why 
I could not imagine it even — that we were not the 
best of friends. It really seems as if I must have 
tknown you all my life.” 

“Does it really? he asked her eagerly; then bend- 
ing nearer to her, so near that his face almost 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


189 


touched one dark stray lock on her temple he 
added, with a slight tremble in his rich, musical 
voice: “Would you believe me if I said that I sim- 
ply came to-night — ” 

Chance, perhaps something more potent, deter- 
mined that the sentence should not be finished. As 
if drawn by some unseen influence, Margaret at the 
moment turned slightly, lifted her eyes and with the 
smile which Douglass’ words had called forth play- 
ing about her lips, looked straight into Phillip’s 
face — white and stern as she had never seen it be- 
fore. 

“O, there is my cousin, Mr. Douglass. Why 
Phillip!” she said stepping forward to clasp his out- 
stretched hand — “how long have you been here? I 
have kept my eye on that door for the last hour, 
expecting you every moment. Why didn’t you 
come early? You promised!” 

“I have been Miss Setwart’s knight errant for so 
long Mr. Douglass,” returned Phillip with rather 
a poor excuse of a smile, “that it is very hard for 
her to realize that lectures, study and a hundred 
other incidentals step in without warning like so 
many dragons to give her cavalier fight before he 
is allowed to pursue his unhindered way. Out in 
the country with nothing to do but sun one’s self all 
day long in the winter there isn’t much cause for 
breaking engagements you see.” 

“O, Mr. Douglass, pray do not think him the lazy 


190 


IN FASHION'S WHIRL 


fellow he is trying to make himself out. Indeed, 
father heaped such enconiums upon his head for 
his industry that I really feared he would take away 
all his ambition for becoming a doctor. The dear 
country people would have broken their hearts over 
such a calamity as that. They fully expect my 
cousin to return crowned with laurels and doctor 
them for the rest of their mortal lives." 

“Well, it isn't every one who is so supremely for- 
tunate as that, Vail," replied Douglass," a whole 
village just waiting to languish on feathery beds of 
sickness as soon as the sheepskin is forthcoming. 

“Don't imagine that the good people of Clover- 
dale are so accommodating," responded Phillip 
quite good naturedly. 

The conversation was interrupted by Mr. Chat- 
terton's unmistakable accents. Mrs. Dearbome 
stood smiling and leaning on his arm. 

“Ah, Vail, my good fellow, how are you? Glad 
to see you this evening. Mrs. Dearbome allow me 
to introduce to you Miss Stewart's cousin, Mr. 
Vail. The two make a charming couple, do they 
not? Ha-ha-ha! ‘pom my honor, charming." 

Margaret and Phillip were standing together and 
slightly withdrawn from Douglass. The observa- 
tion, of no particular significance originating, as it 
did in Mr. Chatterton's brain, sank with undue 
weight into the hearts of at least two of the circle; 
Douglass glancing in that direction felt a fierce 
pang of jealousy arising, and Mlrs. Dearbome, 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


191 

seized with a craving to repay Margaret for a cer- 
tain coolness of manner which she had observed in 
•her, suddenly recognized an opportunity for retali- 
ation. 

Instantly the Major’s vivacious, little wife as- 
sumed her most winsome manner. 

“Is this Mr. Phillip whose praises I have heard 
sung so often? Ah, forgive me! I take too much 
liberty — perhaps? I should have said Mr. Vail, 
but I have heard your cousin speak of you so often, 
‘Mr. Phillip’ came to me naturally.” 

“You have not trespassed, Mrs. Dearborne. Use 
my name as you choose,” answered Phillip, cour- 
teously. 

Mrs. Dearborne cast down her fluttering lids 
and blushed. It had been one of Fraulein’s accom- 
plishments to become suffused in blushes on occa- 
sion. Blood as well as lips and eyes responded to 
the will of this incomparable little sorceress and the 
wife of Major Dearborne had by no means forgot- 
ten the arts of the Fraulein. 

“Well, then, — Mr. Phillip, have you tried the 
punch? No? I am very thirsty myself, will you 
come?” 

She put her hand on Phillip’s arm. It rested 
there as lightly as the petal of a rose. Her form 
breathed unconscious grace. She seemed the em- 
bodiment of the music which the harpist was at the 
moment discoursing. 


192 


IN FASHION’S WHIRL 


Phillip Vail was a thorough gentleman. Mrs. 
Dearbornie had expressed a wish, and though its 
gratification would again separate him from Mar- 
garet he did not question his duty of the moment. 
He turned toward Mrs. Dearborne and smiled as- 
sent — then glanced at Margaret. Douglass was 
bending toward her, as he had seen him do once 
before that evening. The gloomy expression which 
flitted over the fine face of her escort did not escape 
the notice of the Major’s wife, and she forthwith 
determined to use all her ingenuity to dispel it. 

Chatterton, suddenly deprived of his fair partner, 
looked ruefully down at his patent leathers and 
treated his freshly culled mustache to several extra 
twists; then, with half reluctant step, strolled after 
the two, leaving Margaret and Douglass alone to- 
gether. 

“I suppose,” Douglass said, after a moment of 
silence, “this affair might be called aS Tearing suc- 
cess/ ” 

He glanced with a significant smile at a girl not 
(far from them, who was mournfully examining a 
rent in her gown. 

Margaret enjoyed the unmistakable reference. 

“It might,” she said, “but” — and her face sobered 
a little — “do we all understand the meaning of that 
word success? If only we could all agree in regard 
to it, how much happiness won.” 

“You would not call this a success, then?” with 
assumed surprise. 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


193 


“l think it is a successful crush, ” she responded. 
“I am actually wedged in here and 1 have been for 
fully three minutes.” 

Douglass saw his opportunity, and seized it. 

“Pardon me, Miss Stewart,' ” he said, “I should 
have taken you out of this. Shall we seek a quiet 
nook yonder?” 

She assented, and they walked over to an arched 
doorway, which afforded an entrance to a small re- 
ception room. Douglass pushed aside the silken 
drapery and looked in. The room was dimly light- 
ed by oriental lamps. They shed a faint rosy glow 
over some half dozen couples lounging on the lux- 
uriously pillowed window seats, and in cosy cor- 
ners. 

“Standing room only!” he remarked, facetiously. 

Margaret laughed, and then allowed her tall, su- 
perb figure to pose with graceful nonchalance 
against the framework of the arch. As she did so 
the rosebud in her hair was loosened. She lifted 
her hand to- fasten it in its place; a look of sudden 
pleasure flashed in her eyes. 

“O, Mr. Douglass, I want to thank you again for 
the lovely roses which you sent me. You received 
my note, did you not?” 

“Yes, but I felt from its wording that you over- 
valued the gift and undervalued 1 the recipient. I 
would have said” — he paused an instant to give the 
words which followed special emphasis — “if an- 
other woman had written that note that it was a 


194 


IN FASHION’S WHIRL 


society effusion. Somehow it is different with 
you/' Then he added, as a sort of after thought, 
“Everything is different though when you do it.” 
An expression of earnestness, unnatural to features 
upon which rested so often the smile of mockery, 
came into his face. The words that followed were 
spoken vehemently, almost recklessly. “You are 
the first woman, Miss Stewart, whom I ever met 
who could make me feel, too, that woman might 
yet fulfil her mission — the redemption of man. 
She madte him lose Paradise — she was successful 
there.” His lips curled in 'bitterness. She looked 
at him as if she were utterly amazed at the dis- 
turbance of his accustomed calm; as if standing on 
a site of peaceful beauty she had become aware 
that a seething volcano lay at her feet. 

“You are not putting too high an estimate on 
woman’s trust,” she answered him, “but I should 
feel sorry to believe that I am the only woman 
who has ever touched your higher nature; I think 
it must have been touched many times before or — 
or — ” She hesitated. 

“Or what?” he asked, curiously. 

“Or you would not be what you are,” she re- 
plied, simply. 

A dull, red flush swept over his face and he 
cleared his throat nervously. 

“Well, I never contradict a lady,” he said, with 
evident embarrassment in his voice. “I will say, 
though, that we each most certainly Appreciate the 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


*95 


other's superior qualities, and we do not seem, at 
least unduly, inflated over our own, but do you 
know/ 5 he was assuming once more that air of 
easy self-possession, “I have a most unsatisfied 
nature. I am not willing to cry ‘quits' till I get 
the best of an opponent." 

“Well," she said, challengingly. 

“You are the most beautiful woman here to- 
night," he said, with a sort of daring candor in his 
manner. “Now what can you answer?" 

“I think your assertion entirely too presumptu- 
ous, Mr. Douglass," she replied, quickly. “You 
have no right to make that claim for me. One 
man's opinion is worth very little among a multi- 
tude. It would take a majority of votes to prove 
the truth of your statement, so I cannot accept it." 

He looked at her, open admiration in his glance. 

“I confess myself vanquished 1 , and lower my 
colors," he said. 

“It is as great an art to surrender gracefully as 
to conquer," she replied, consolingly. Then she 
saw Mrs. Pierson coming toward them. The 
slight elevation of the head, the half droop of the 
eyelids, token of grave conceit, always sent the 
blood rushing defiantly through Margaret's veins, 
whenever she came in contact with Douglass' sis- 
ter. 

“Miss Stewart, your cousin Katheryn was in- 
quiring for you a few moments ago," she an- 
nounced in measured tones, but she fastened her 


196 


IN FASHION’S WHIRL 


eyes on her brother. “I said,” she continued, “if I 
should see you I would send you over to her. She 
is somewhat bored with Judge Chatterton, I be- 
lieve. I thought — ” 

“That Miss Stewart could help her out,” finished 
Douglass, deep annoyance observable in his tones. 

“The Judge is effusively fond of young people,” 
remarked Mrs. Pierson, ignoring her brother's 
words, and this time addressing herself to Mar- 
garet. 

Quick to divine Mrs. Pierson's evident intention 
of breaking up M'argaret's tete-a-tete with Doug- 
lass, the girl was too independent to hesitate a mo- 
ment as to her action. She excused herself and 
was half way across the room before Douglass 
realized that she was not by his side. 

As Margaret, still smarting under the indignity 
she felt had been offered her, passed into the next 
room, she saw Phillip over by the piano, and Mrs. 
Dearborne was pratting away at his side. He was 
looking down on her petite figure, seemingly quite 
content to be thus entertained. The tableaux 
seemed to add to her present irritability. 

“How can Phillip be amused with that woman!” 
she said to herself, half angrily. But others that 
evening beside Margaret thought that the Major's 
wife had bewitched the handsome young medical 
student. 

As soon as Margaret had joined' Katheryn and 
the judge, Katheryn began to look for an opportun- 
great danger connected with its successful accom- 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


19 7 


ity to escape from her persent thralldom. !S'he had 
been following Phillip with longing eyes for fully 
twenty minutes and had grown desperate. Both 
Phoebe and Sara Chatterton had tried to block 
Mrs. Dearborne’s little game, but, wearied at last, 
had retired from the field. Even Miss Isham, af- 
ter being kindly given the slip by the Rev. Har- 
court, though she had rolled! her eyes imploringly 
at Phillip, had been unable to dislodge the enemy 
or gain possession of the captive. At the mo- 
ment of Margaret’s arrival, however, Katheryn saw 
that Mrs. Dearborne was engaged in conversation 
with Aubrey Lawrence. She slipped from her com- 
panions and was at Phillip’s side in a moment. 

“Mr. Vail,” she said, “I want to introduce you to 
a dear friend of mine, who is in perfect spasms to 
meet you.” 

“So bad as that?” he asked. 

“Yes, quite as bad, so no time can be lost. Mrs. 
Dearborne will not object to your leaving on an 
errand of mercy.” 

Miss Wilby, to whom Phillip was thus suddenly 
piloted was petite of figure and of the blonde type. 
She gushed over Phillip as if she had known him 
all her life. 

“I told Miss Lansdowne, I was wild to meet you, 
JMr. Vail,” she announced before the introduction 
had fairly ended. “It was love at first sight. Do 
you know I simply adore dark men and loathe 
blonds? Isn’t that funny? I have always pined 


198 


IN FASHION’S WHIRL 


for black hair,” pushing back her own fair locks 
that they might glisten effectively. “O, Katheryn, 
there comes mamma. I know she is going to tell 
me how' horribly impolite I was to run off from 
Mr. Boskin, but really, dear, he is just a little dan- 
gerous. He has been at the champagne punch all 
evening and trips over every other person he 
meets.” 

Phillip was so thoroughly disgusted with the 
girl's silliness that he mentally determined to quit 
the whole affair as soon as he could see Margaret 
and bid good-night; but he was not destined to 
carry out his determination without some further 
delay. He noted with prophetical misgivings the 
matron now nearing her course toward him. 

Mrs. Wilby was a woman verging toward the 
meridian of life and was decidedly inclined to em- 
bonpoint. She flashed with diamonds and rustled 
with silks. 

“Mamma, darling, please don't scold me for run- 
ning off from Mr. Boskin. I was so unmercifully 
bored, you know,” exclaimed Miss Wilby at sight 
of her mother. “Let me introduce Mr. Vail, mam- 
ma, Miss Stewart’s cousin. He is studying medi- 
cine here.” 

In spite of Miss Wilby's fearfulness of her moth- 
er's ire, Phillip could not see any cause for alarm, 
as that lady appeared to be in the best of humors. 

“I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Vail,” she 
said, in a voice slightly masculine in quality. “We 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


199 


are always glad to see new faces in Beechdale. 
Both my husband and myself adore young people. 
I hope we will have the pleasure of welcoming you 
to our home some time in the near future. Tele- 
phone us any afternoon. Mabelle will arrange to 
be at home. Come to dinner; that would be bet- 
ter, and spend the evening with us.” 

“Do promise, now, won’t you, Mr. Vail?” 
pleaded Miss Wilby. “Katheryn will let you off, 
won’t you, dear? You see I can’t invite Katheryn 
or even your cousin, for I want you all to myself,” 
meltingly. “Katheryn and I are learning to smoke 
cigarettes. I will show you how well up in the art 
I am. We have a club, and practise three hours 
every week.” 

“My darling, Mr. Vail will think you the wicked- 
est girl he ever knew,” broke in Mrs. Wilby, in an 
admonishing tone of voice, but an admiring glance 
from her eye. 

“Will you come, Mr. Vail? Do promise, or I 
can’t sleep a wink tonight,” implored Miss Wilby. 

“There are many pleasures in which I would like 
to join this winter, but it will be quite impossible 
for me to do so, if I accomplish the work I have 
mapped out for myself. I fear to make any prom- 
ise for the near future.” 

Katheryn was elated when she saw that her friend 
could obtain no definite answer from Phillip. She 
had begun to fear that her scheme of getting Phillip 
away from his late siren might in the end work her 


200 


IN FASHION’S WHIRL 


more harm in another direction. Several others 
gathered around at this juncture and Phillip, chanc- 
ing to see Margaret standing alone, went toward 
her. 

“Margaret!” — he never, except in jest, called her 
by this name when they were alone; it gave her 
pain — “I think I will go. I have had quite enough 
of this for one evening.” 

“Phillip, I am so sorry we could not have been 
together more. Mr. Douglass has asked me to go 
out to supper with him, but he would be only too 
glad to have you, too, I know. He will be here in 
a moment.” 

“Very likely! Men are not so generous,” he 
said a little bitterly. “No, I guess I will go and tell 
the hostess what a delightful evening I have had, 
and what a moral effort it takes to tear myself 
away, but that duty calls. How is that for a novice 
in society’s vernacular? Am I not an apt scholar?” 
He gave a forced, reckless laugh. The sound of 
it, so unlike Phillip’s spontaneous outflow of mirth, 
sent a chill through Margaret. She looked at him 
wonderingly, perplexed. 

“I have some work for tomorrow still to do,” he 
added, in a more natural tone, for he saw the pained 
expression creeping into her eyes. 

“There is Mrs. Dearbome coming after me !” he 
exclaimed. “I declare I never saw such a place. 
A fellow would certainly have several proposals if 
he remained all evening, beside incidental invita- 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


201 


tions to elope. I will go now and pay my parting 
respects and get out of such dangerous company 
before I do anything rash.” He put out his hand 
and clasped hers. He noticed that it was cold and 
that it trembled in his own. 

“Good-bye,” he said, and smiled in the old frank 
way, as he left her. 

The rest of the evening dragged wearily for Mar- 
garet. A fear that Phillip, notwithstanding his last 
few words, was annoyed at her for something, 
weighed upon her with a strange sense of loss. 
The days of confidence and companionship seemed 
suddenly to have gone forever. She attempted 
vainly to free herself of such forbodings and to be- 
come interested ini the scenes about her. She felt 
as one moving aimlessly about, whose real self — 
the living, thinking self — was drawn by some exter- 
nal influence to a different sphere of action. Not un- 
til the close of the evening did she become, even 
partially, readjusted to her surroundings. 

Douglass was bidding her good-night, and they 
were standing a few moments alone. 

“I have enjoyed the evening more than I can ex- 
press, Miss Stewart,” he said, earnestly. “If I 
never experience another such, it will remain with 
me as one of the few pure, green spots that come 
in the waste of life.” 

A passionate surge of words pressed for utter- 
ance, but a strange sense of remoteness from her 
seemed to freeze them on his lips. 


202 


IN FASHION’S WHIRL 


“If — if I should never be quite so happy as I have 
been tonight — we never know when we have 
reached the pinnacle of our joys — if that were so, 
would you forgive me if I took one of these buds 
I gave you? It seems unmannerly to ask for the 
return of a gift, does it not?” 

“O, don’t apologize, Mr. Douglass, I shall be 
only too glad to show my appreciation of your gift 
by granting the first wish you have ever expressed 
to me. Which will you have?” 

She bent her head to look at them. The move- 
ment rushed one fair bud, just opening, against 
her lips. He put his hand out instantly and 
touched it. 

“This one if — if I may,” he answered. 

“It is yours; take it,” she said softly. 

“Thank you!” He drew it gently from its rest- 
ing place and held out his hand to her. 

“Good-night.” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


SOCIAL REPORTING. 

LINOIR rushed into Mlargaret’s room 
the next morning, before the latter had 
fairly opened her eyes to the sunlight 
of another day. 

''Margaret !” she burst out excited- 
ly, “here is the account of the recep- 
tion in the Herald. Let me read it.” 

It was the one solitary occasion 
when Margaret could have been ac- 
cused of a desire for “a little more sleep and a little 
more slumber.” She rubbed her eyes, however, 
and tried to quicken her deadened senses, while 
Elinoir read in an excited treble the Herald's ac- 
count of the affair of the previous evening. 

“Mrs. Frances Lansdowne’s tea and musicale 
was a delightful social event of yesterday. As has 
been previously stated in these columns, it was the 
occasion of presenting her young daughter, Miss 
Elinoir, to society, and of announcing Miss Yza- 
bel’s engagement to Mr. Fletcher Chatterton, son 
of Judge Chatterton, and a rising young attorney. 
Both young girls inherit the charming grace, as 
well as the brilliant mind, of their mother, and the 
brains and beauty of the social world — masculine 
and feminine — turned out to do honor to the event. 



204 


SOCIAL REPORTING 


Mr. and Mrs. Frederick William Lansdowne, who, 
by the way, are expected home from abroad at an 
early date, have reason indeed to be very proud of 
their beautiful nieces. The delightful informali- 
ties which always characterize Mrs. Lansdowne's 
'at homes/ marked this affair, also. 

"Mrs. Lansdowne wore a Frenchy costume of 
pale green crepe de chene, with bodice of violet 
velvet, and! garniture of rare lace. She fairly di- 
vided the honors with her handsome daughters. 
The young debutante wore a dreamy creation of 
white chiffon over silk, and trimmed in lace, worn 
by her great-grandmother. She looked a very queen 
among roses as she stood with her fair arms full of 
American Beauties. The profusion of flowers re- 
ceived by her yesterday was conclusive evidence of 
'the esteem in which she is held by her host of 
young friends. 

“Mr. Chatterton’s sweet fiancee bore her blush- 
ing honors as became one of the House of Lans- 
downe. She was gowned in pale blue taffeta, 
which set off her fair hair and delicate coloring to 
perfection. Miss Katheryn, never looked more be- 
witching than she did yesterday, in a pink embroid- 
ered silk grenadine over pink taffeta. Miss Lans- 
downe and Miss Chatterton, both in pink, presided 
over the chocolate table in the early part of the af- 
ternoon. Assisting also in the entertainment of 
the geusts and making themselves fascinating 
throughout the rooms, were Miss Stewart and 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


205 


Miss Sara Chatterton, together with a bevy of last 
year’s debutantes. Miss Stewart is a niece of Mrs. 
Lansdowne’s and a gloriously beautiful girl. She 
is a descendant on her father’s side of the royal 
Stewart blood. 

“Miss Maud, the youngest daughter of the 
house, came in for an hour or so in the afternoon 
to meet her mother’s friends and looked very sweet 
and shy in simple white with a string of pearls 
about her throat. Mrs. Aubrey Lawrence sang 
several selections during the evening, and, of 
course, as she always does, sang divinely. Among 
the ‘crush’ were noticed 1 : Mrs. Chatterton, hand- 
some in wine velvet with diamond ornaments. 
Both she and the Judge were looking supremely 
happy over the coming alliance which will unite the 
two foremost families of Beechdale — Lansdowne 
and Chatterton. 

“Mrs. Dearborne was as fascinating as ever and 
wore an imported costume which only made more 
evident the countless charms of the winsome little 
foreigner. Mrs. Pierson looked very stately in 
black and white satin and diamond tiara in her beau- 
tiful hair. Mrs. Dr. Winthrop wore black lace and 
sapphire ornaments. 

“There were also present — but where’s the use 
of, reading a whole string of names? That isn’t 
particularly entertaining to' us,” exclaimed Elinoir. 
“That will be of more interest to other people, who 
will be anxious to know whether they were men- 


206 


SOCIAL REPORTING 


tioned. There are about four classes alt every 
swell affair/' she went on, glibly. “First, the peo- 
ple who give the affair and their assistants — like 
mamma and all us girls, for instance, andl you and 
Sara and Phoebe. We all received the most notice, 
you see. Next comes a few boil-tons, with a line 
or two each; then a list of all the prominent society 
people, and at the end 'and others.' Of course, 
that means all the rest who get there by the skin of 
their teeth, you know. Perhaps the hostess is un- 
der some obligations to them, or quite as often 
they are some poor relations, who did not have 
sense enough to know they were not wanted, even 
though an invitation was sent to them. Anyway, 
these 'unmentionables' are seldom seen in society. 
When the list is given the reporter, of course, she 
knows just how to size them up. It's quite an art, 
though, I tell you." She took the paper once 
more and looked at the article she had just read. 

“That's an awfully nice description of me, isn't 
it?" she asked. “Miss Burton is just perfectly 
sweet, anyway. Mrs. Chatterton said the other 
day to mamma that if everybody did not know 
Miss Burton to be only a reporter she could de- 
ceive lots of people — that is, she might be taken 
for — for one of the real nobility, you know. With 
this very complimentary estimate of Miss Burton's 
personality, Elinoir withdrew as unceremoniously 
as she had entered. 

Margaret lay back upon her pillows and pressed 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


20 7 


one rounded arm upon her aching head. 

“The real nobility/' she repeated, half aloud. 
“If such estimates are true, why should my soul so 
passionately deny it. Could I be happy living so, 
day after day, with no striving except this vain 
striving with each other? Father, darling mother, 
Phillip! You cannot all have been mistaken." She 
turned over with a little weary moan and lay quiet 
with her face buried in her hands. 

When she went downstairs, nearly an hour later, 
the family were not yet astir. She breakfasted 
alone and then walked out into the warm sunshine. 
She turned her steps to a favorite spot in the pic- 
turesque little park near by. The beauty, the se- 
renity of the place sank soothingy into her heart. 
After a few turns up and down through the park 
she came back to sit where a fountain played and 
sparkled in its marble basin. For the first time an 
inscription on the base of the fountain attracted 
her notice, though it was not the first time she had 
rested in the same place. She arose and stepped 
nearer to read it : 

Given to the people of Beechdale 

by 

Malcolm James Douglass, 

January i, 1870. 

“I wonder if it can be Mr. Douglass' father/' 
she reflected. As if she had the power to summon 
one who could best answer her inquiries, she 


208 


SOCIAL REPORTING 


turned at the sound of approaching footsteps and 
turned 1 herself face to face with Douglass. “You 
are out early, after the dissipations of yesterday, 
aren't you?" he asked, smiling*, and with his hand 
extended as he came toward her. 

“Habit is a strong master," she replied. “I can- 
not sleep late, however tired I may be, and this 
park is so lovely, and restful," leaning her headi 
with a sigh of satisfaction against the back of the 
rustic bench. 

“It is a pretty little spot," he remarked, as 
though recognizing the fact of its attractiveness for 
the first time. She wondered whether familiarity 
with beauty, as with deformity, could ever breed 
indifference. 

“O, have you never realized the fact before, Mr. 
Douglass?" she asked. 

“I have made but poor use of my eyes all these 
years, if that were so," he answeredl, evasively. 

“But there is such a difference, do you not 
think so, between simply being aware of the exist- 
ence of beauty and having a sympathetic appreci- 
ation of it. I love to think God breathes upon us, 
as it were, through his universe — that wherever 
beauty is, there is God; that beauty is indeed God, 
the express image of His Spirit. I believe that if 
I were blind and I should be placed anywhere in 
the midst of such fairness, I should know it in- 
stantly. It would become at once as something 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


209 


tangible/’ Her face seemed to him to glow for a 
moment with an ethereal glory. 

“I should like to be your pupil for a little 
while/’ he said, with sincerity in his voice. “I see 
how one might be very happy believing as you do. 
I am something of a skeptic, though. Do you 
imagine 1 could ever learn?” The half-amused, 
half cynical smile she knew so well was once more 
upon his lips and in his eyes. 

“You might,” she said, “that is, if you could ever 
really think seriously of anything.” 

“Truly, Miss Stewart, I was never more serious 
in my life than when I asked the question. Though 
I confess my aesthetic faculty has been somewhat 
blunted, I can still both see and feel surpassing 
loveliness when fortune kindly throws it in my 
way.” 

She could not, with her quick woman’s intuition, 
misinterpret the meaning behind his words. He 
was leaning over the back of her settee and look- 
ing down at her with all his heart in his eyes. A 
tiny twig fell from the tree above them, snapped 
off by a songster overhead!. It fell entangled in 
the soft hair about her face. Douglass drew it 
from the red-brown meshes, gently, as a mother 
might have done. 

“Thank you,” she said, looking at him with a 
smile. But there was that in the tense expression 
of his face, the compressed lips, that sent the blood 
rushing tumultuously through her veins. 


210 


SOCIAL REPORTING 


She turned her eyes from him confusedly and 
arose. Some one was coming quickly up the walk. 
“Why, there is Mrs. Dearborne," she cried. She 
started toward her with a genuine smile of wel- 
come on her lips. She could welcome even the 
Major's wife to free her from her present embar- 
rassment. 

“How fortunate to find you here, Mr. Douglass," 
exclaimed Mrs. Dearborne. “The Major, poor 
man, has been telephoning to you at the club, and 
I don't know where all. He wished to* make an 
appointment — some church affair, I believe. They 
want to invest you with a new title — Junior War- 
denship. I met Mirs. Lawrence a few moments 
ago. I happened to mention the Major's predica- 
ment. She had just passed by and had! seen you 
and Miss Stewart in here. So I came right along. 
I wall not spoil your tete-a-tete — not for the world. 
I would not be so cruel." 

She gave so many significant nods and glances 
that Margaret was irritated almost beyond endur- 
ance. 

“Call at the Major's office some time today, Mr. 
Douglass. Good-bye, my woodland daisy. You 
did look so beautiful yesterday! Ah, do> not look 
cross! You do not like compliments? Wlell, 
never mind, I will not trespass again. Tell your 
cousin, though, I fell in love with him last night. 
O, he is so handsome and fascinating. The Major 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


211 


was quite jealous. Indeed, he was! Well, good- 
bye” 

Margaret tried not to show how extremely an- 
noyed she was by Mrs. Dearborne’s remarks, and 
when the little woman flittered away she felt the 
need of a theme for immediate conversation in or- 
der to alter her humor. 

Fortunately her eyes fell once more on the in- 
scription. “Is that your father’s name?” she 
asked, walking toward 1 the fountain with a quick, 
nervous step. She examined it with almost ex- 
travagantly absorbing interest. 

“Yes, my father presented both the fountain and 
the park grounds. He was very proud of Beech- 
dale and more proud still of its conservatism. I 
should not wonder if the old gentleman”- — tapping 
the inscription lightly with his cane — “had been 
rather hard to suit on the other side. Unless he 
were introduced to a very exclusive set of old resi- 
dents, I am afraid he would be, ah — just a little 
bored.” 

The absence of feeling and even of natural re- 
spect in his words disappointed her; but the evident 
lack of sympathy for his father’s prid'e which the 
covert sarcasm in his voice and words plainly in- 
dicated, counteracted the unfavorable impression 
produced at first. 

Douglass felt that in some way he had ventured 
too far. He hastened to redeem himself in her 
eyes. 


212 


SOCIAL REPORTING 


“1 have shocked you unmercifully, I am sure, 
Miss Stewart. The trouble is I have not been as- 
sociated with such women as you. I forget that 
repartee and wholesome sarcasm are not always 
acceptable. This sort of coin never fails to pass in 
Beechdale, you know. Seriousness in any shape 
or form is below par. By the way, to change the 
subject, did my sister call the other day?” 

“Not that I know.” 

“She fully intended to. Something doubtless 
hindered. You should be great friends,” he con- 
tinued, a wicked twinkle creeping into his blue 
eyes. “You, too, are a descendant of royalty, I 
believe. My sister is trying to organize a branch 
of the ‘Order of the Crown/ You may not have 
suspected it, but really, there is quite a respectable 
number of elegibles in Beechdale.” 

“O, Mr. Douglass, please, please do not think I 
had anything to do with that report. There is not 
an atom of truth in it. For all I know I am just a 
true American, and I glory in it. I might be de- 
scended from all the royal blood of Europe taken 
together and I would still be what I am, myself — 
no more, no less.” 

She looked so truly noble, as she spoke, and yet 
so absolutely free from every taint of false pride, so 
perfect a realization of American womanhood, that 
he lifted his hat reverently and bowed to her as she 
stood there. 

“Men would be better, homes would be hap- 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


213 


pier, our country safer, if there were more women 
such as you.” 

They stood for a moment silent, busy with their 
own thoughts; then Douglass said: 

“I am glad I met you here this morning. You 
are an ideal teacher, Miss Stewart, for one learns 
his lesson before he is aware/’ 

The bells sounded the noon hour from the 
Church of Our Lady. 

“How quickly the time has passed — and I feel 
quite myself again,” she exclaimed. “But I must 
go now. The family will not know what has be- 
come of me.” 

“I will see you again tonight at Mrs. Chatter- 
ton’s dance, will I not?” he asked. 

“If I am not too tired.” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


RICH AND WRETCHED. 

OR nearly two weeks after Mrs. Lans- 
downe’s tea Margaret lived in a whirl 
of excitement. The season was now 
fairly entered upon, and with receiving 
calls and attending both afternoon and 
evening affairs, there was little time 
left which was unoccupied. Phillip 
had been up twice, but both calls had 
proved rather unsatisfactory to him, 
for he had 1 unfortunately happened in when several 
others were claiming Margaret’s attention. 

She had planned on several occasions to go with 
Phillip to call on Mrs. Lawrence. Margaret had 
been very enthusiastic in her praises of her friend 
and was anxious that Phillip should meet the sweet 
singer in her own home. But as yet they had not 
been able to agree upon a time convenient to both, 
and Phillip had at last suggested that they should 
wait until later, when both might have more leisure. 

A few days after this decision, Margaret received 
a note from her friend. It read: 

"My Dear Miss Stewart — You remember you 
promised to come over sometime when I was par- 
ticularly 'blue/ if I should let you know. I have 



A MODERN PATRICIAN 


215 


not been well for several days, and I have the feel- 
ing that you could help me. Will you come? 

GERTRUDE N. LAWRENCE.” 

“Aunt Frances, I think I will change my mind 
about going with Kathervn to the club this after- 
noon. I have received a note from Mrs. Law- 
rence and she begs me to come over. She is not 
feeling well and I do not like to refuse her. An- 
other time for the club will do.” 

“O, very well, my dear, I will not try to inter- 
fere with what you believe to be your duty,” re- 
plied Mrs. Lansdowne magnanimously, and Mar- 
garet encountered no more serious opposition from 
Kathervn when she informed her of her altered 
plans. 

Half-past two found Margaret on her way to the 
Elms, and on her arrival there she was directed at 
once to Mrs. Lawrence's private sitting room. The 
door was thrown open before Margaret had 
reached the hallway leading to it. 

“The maid directed me to come upstairs,” Mar- 
garet said, as she met her fair young hostess. 

“Yes, I wanted you to feel perfectly at home. We 
will have a much cosier time here, safe from intru- 
sion. I am so pleased to have you. I felt almost 
conscience stricken though, after I had written to 
you. This roundi of gayety is very hard on one at 
first, especially so when one has lived the quiet, re- 
freshing life which you have lived.” 


2l6 


RICH AND WRETCHED 


“Do not give yourself the slightest anxiety as to 
that. I had a good night’s rest and a little saunter 
in the park this morning. I love to steal away by 
myself and breathe in the delicious air. What a 
contrast it is to the heat of drawing rooms!” 

Mrs. Lawrence smiled and then she said — “I 
am afraid, Mr. Douglass must bore you consider- 
ably, if you care to be alone. He seems to haunt 
that park mornings. I often see him there when 
I take my morning drive.” 

“O, no, Mr. Douglass never wearies me, but he 
is about the only man I have met here of whom I 
can say that I enjoy his conversation. I am al- 
ways relieved when he appears at social companies. 
I should be insufferably bored many times, I fear, 
if he were not there.” 

“Yes, Mr. Douglass is certainly a man quite 
superior intellectually,” Mrs. Lawrence remarked. 

“It would not be altogether so absurdly ridic- 
ulous — this society life — if it did not seem to be 
lived with such tragic earnestness,” Margaret con- 
tinued. 

The two women were seated side by side on a 
cushioned divan. Gertrude Lawrence put out her 
hand and laid it in the other’s lap. The action 
seemed to have in it a mute appeal for sympathy — 
a declaration of loneliness. Margaret instinctive- 
ly covered it with her own. 

“Would you be unhappy if such a life were yours, 
Miss Stewart? Might you not in time become at- 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


21 7 


traded instead of repulsed by it? Position, 
wealth, influence cannot all together be despised, 
do you think so?” Though the voice suggested 
tranquility of mind, there was a tense expression 
in the eyes that contradicted belief in an inner re- 
pose. 

“You misunderstand, Mrs. Lawrence. I — ” 

“Call me Gertrude!” entreated Mrs. Lawrence. 

“I should be happy to do so, if I may be Mar- 
garet to you.” Mrs. Lawrence smiled, andi moved 
a little more closely to the young girl's side. 

“You misunderstand me, Gertrude, I am sure,” 
repeated Margaret. “It is not social position — not 
wealth, not influence that I would denounce. It is 
the deplorable use made of them. These things 
should be cables to lift men to the stars; instead, 
they are forged into chains of envy, profligacy and 
tyranny and hold men in the dust.” 

Margaret saw the altered expression of her com- 
panion's face. The tender look faded out and in 
its place was settling the old one of mingled de- 
spair and resignation. Something within Mar- 
garet’s heart clamored for a revelation of the heart 
of this woman, not out of any vulgar curiosity, but 
because of a longing to help. Often since she had 
come to know Gertrude Lawrence there had 1 been 
moments when, their eyes meeting, this desire had 
been mutely asked for and answered. To Mar- 
garet the answer had always seemed to be “I can- 
not speak!” But, sitting now close by Gertrude's 


218 


RICH AND WRETCHED 


side, their hands entwined within each other's, and 
speaking as lips can never speak, Margaret ven- 
tured to break the silence she had heretofore im- 
posed upon herself. 

“Gertrude, has happiness come to you?" 

In a moment all Gertrude Lawrence’s composure 
slipped from her. She was bereft at a word of the 
armor that had heretofore concealed every vulner- 
able point of her inner nature. 

“No, no, my God, no!" she moaned. 

Margaret, alarmed at the effect her words had 
produced, hastened by those little, silent expres- 
sions of love and sympathy which are so instinc- 
tive to a noble heart, to calm Gertrude's violent 
agitation. Then the unhappy woman, raising her 
head, looked into the dark, limpid, pitying eyes 
bent upon her. 

“Let me sit here," she said, rising and taking a 
seat on a hassock at Margaret's feet. “I must 
talk to you — the time has come — but I would iook 
into your face to find the strength there which I 
need. Do you see that Madonna? Ah, I think I 
can sympathize with the millions of wretched wo- 
men who are drawn to the feet of Mary. It is the 
yearning heart-cry for a pure and noble woman's 
love." Margaret pressed the hand in hers gently, 
lovingly, but did not speak. 

“Forgive me, Margaret, for bringing you here 
only to pain your sensitive soul, but — somehow — I 
felt I must do so. I wanted to tell you the story of 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


219 


my life, because — because — well it does not matter 
why, you only need to know that I am wretched, 
very wretched.” 

“I came to comfort you in any way I could, 
dear,” answered Margaret, tenderly. “I gathered 
from your note that you were unusually depressed, 
and I hoped that companionship, even if it were 
powerless to do much, might help to drive away 
the gloom. Do not feel that you are asking a 
favor when you ask help from me. It is a joyous 
privilege, for which I have many times yearned.” 

“Ah, perhaps,” said Gertrude, quickly and re- 
morsefully, “I may have treated you at times more 
coldly than my real feelings would have dictated, 
but from our first meeting I felt humbled in your 
presence. The hauteur, or gayety, affected in the 
presence of others, I was assured would be de- 
tected by you. Believe me, this seeming indiffer- 
ence resulted not because I was not drawn to you, 
but because I dreaded the revelation consequent 
upon intimacy. You see me surrounded by every- 
thing that is generally supposed to satisfy even a 
woman; yet I do not know what the word 'satisfy' 
means. It is true, I was not born to the social 
sphere I now occupy. Some might insist that in 
this fact could bd traced the cause for my unhap- 
piness. But I was brought up among educated 
and refined people. 

“When I was a child I showed a marked talent 
for singing, and it was the cherished hope of my 


220 


RICH AND WRETCHED 


parents, that when the proper time came I might 
develop this gift. I studied for a while under pro- 
fessors in my own city and then went to New York 
to continue my work. I was so encouraged there 
that later arrangements were made for me to go 
abroad. I remained a year, and on returning I 
had a flattering offer in New York, which I ac- 
cepted. Though there I enjoyed a success far be- 
yond my wildest dreams, my heart cried out for 
home. I became convinced that real affection was 
more priceless than the praises of strangers. 

“I was welcomed with every demonstration of 
appreciation in my own city, and I felt that my hap- 
piness was complete. That winter I met Mr. Law- 
rence at a charity entertainment. He was hand- 
some, gallant and entertaining. There was per- 
sonal magnetism about him, too, that fascinated 
me. 

“He asked me if he might call at my home. I 
readily gave my consent, and he lost no time in 
taking advantage of the permission I had granted. 
(My father and mother, delighted both with his dis- 
tinguished appearance and winning manners, en- 
couraged the intimacy. I myself was flattered 
with the attentions of one, who, I know, could 
have had his choice of perhaps any girl in Philadel- 
phia; vet he had chosen me. But my heart was 
not his, though I often tried to think it was. An- 
other face — the face of one who had loved me 
since my school days — stood always between us 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


22 1 


in mute appeal. He had left his home while I was 
in New York, to take a position in a western city. 
During his absence, we had corresponded regu- 
larly. 

“To Mr. Lawrence’s impassioned appeals, for he 
soon gave expresssion to his love for me, I gave 
no definite response. I could not understand my- 
self yet. When I was with him the intoxication of 
his mad love thrilled me through and' through; 
yet, strangely enough, his absence never brought 
to me the sense of loneliness and emptiness which 
my heart said should exist. 

“M»y parents supplemented his pleadings with 
their own urgings. My mother pictured to me the 
home of luxury over which I should preside, the 
honored and influential name I should bear and 
the place I should hold in the social world. 'And 
I — what am I to give him in return for all these 
gifts, I asked in dismay/ 'Your youth, your 
beauty, your voice/ she replied, and — God forgive 
me ! I yielded/’ 

She buried her face in her hands, and for a mo- 
ment strove bravely with her emotions. When she 
lifted her head once more her eyes burned with un- 
natural brilliancy, but she was calm. 

“After our marriage,” she continued, “we spent 
six months abroad, and in the meantime this house 
was being fitted for our use. But when we re- 
turned our halcyon days had vanished! Mr. Law- 
rence’s family, while they made a formal attempt 


222 


RICH AND WRETCHED 


to meet me cordially, revealed unmistakably in 
their manner and often in sarcastic remarks, their 
real feeling toward me. I at once saw thajt they 
felt he had married beneath him. An ancestral 
tree hung in their library, while I possessed only 
the scanty records of three generations, wealth had! 
long been in their family only competency in mine. 
The youth, the beauty and the talent were, as I 
feared, not sufficient to counterbalance the posses- 
sions into which I had come. 

“Still, I was Aubrey Lawrence’s wife and as such 
society fawned and smiled upon me. I was ap- 
plauded for my voice, I was flattered for my beauty. 
At the end of another year our little girl was bora 
and the anguish that had been pressing om miy 
heart was quieted for the time by baby fingers ; but 
a new and crueler stroke awaited. My; husband’s 
ardor began to cool. He was bitterly disappointed 
that an heir to the Lawrence name had not beetn 
born, and he seemed to have no place in his heart 
for the little stranger that had come to our sad- 
dened home. Gratification, too, was dfoing its 
deadening work. No desire of his had ever gone! 
unsatisfied. His feeling for me sprang, not from 
true love, but mad 1 impulse. Until he had gained 
possesssion of me, his latest toy, it was the one 
thing he could not live without. When desire was 
gratified, his passion began to abate. 

“O, those wretched, wretched days, and yet more 
wretched ones were to follow.” She shuddered, as 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


223 


if the agony of the past was upon her anew. Mar- 
garet bent down to touch her lips to the burning 
cheek. Gertrudle flung out her arms with a sud- 
den passionate gesture. 

"Don’t, don’t,” she cried, with wild entreaty in 
her face. "Don’t touch your lips to mine until you 
have heard all — all the miserable story. Let me,” 
raising her own eyes to the clear, sweet ones bent 
upon her, "let me just see you look at me for one 
little moment, so, then I can bear your accusing 
glances better. Don’t speak, dear, d'om’t! I must 
go on while I have the courage. Listen, I am 
calmer now. Soon; a report came to me from 
jealous tongues, jealous because I had so> easily 
captured the prize they had once tried in vain to 
win, that my husband was not true. I could not, 
dared not, believe it at first. I kept my own coun- 
sels, tried to smile down all my lurking doubts and 
swept through the crowds with head unbowed. My 
suspicions, once aroused, however, would not be 
put entirely down. I began to investigate for my- 
self. I found the report only too true. My hus- 
band — the man to whom I had given myself, pure 
and undefiled, was a monster of corrupted villany; 
but here lay the difference which separated Aubrey 
Lawrence from the scoundrels that are ostracized 
from good society — he was rich, well and widely 
connected and, as the world 1 counts, nobly de- 
scended. 

"When I knew the whole dreadful truth I went 


224 


RICH AND WRETCHED 


to him with it. I feared his anger, but I had no 
need. Instead of going into a violent passion, as 
I had seen him do on a much slighter provocation, 
he laughed it off, as one might an idle tale. He 
told me that I was an unsophisticated girl; that all 
men had to sow their wild oats ; he was not worse 
than others. ‘We will get on nicely/ he said, 'when 
we have come to a better understanding/ He 
thought we had been married 1 long enough for ro- 
manticism to have passed. He told me that he did 
not wish to make a slave of me, as some men did 
of their wives; neither did he desire to be made a 
slave of; that neither one would call the other to 
task; that I was to be a sensible wife, and he would 
be an indulgent husband. 'All that heart can wish 
for is yours for the asking/ he said. O, my God — 
all that heart could wish for! If he could have 
seen the awful despair in that heart then !” 

"When that interview was ended, I w r as a 
changed woman. A new life began for me that 
day. I think, ah, it is terrible to say it, but I think 
I should have ended it, had it not been for a baby’s 
voice and a baby’s dimpled fingers that somehow 
drew me back from the terrible sin I contemplated. 

"I tried to live for her — to plan for her, and life 
after a while seemed to be not altogether aimless. 
But the tyranny of social custom snatched even 
this remaining joy from my detaining fingers. My 
husband and my husband’s people became alarmed 
at my plebeian inclinations. They hinted it at first 
— then spoke out plainly. I had my baby too much 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


225 


with me. A French nurse, more responsible than 
the one I had, was procured, and the thousand little 
acts of love a mother so delights to perform had to 
be relinquished. Soon my heart was forced to see 
my little one turn with greater delight to her nurse 
than to her mother. 

“One day, smarting more keenly than usual un- 
der this cruel and growing separation from my 
child, I threw on my wraps and started out. I did 
not care where I went; I only longed to get away 
from the home which was a prison to me. Hardly 
knowing what I did, I stepped on a car and rode to 
Leyton. When I alighted I thought I saw a fami- 
liar figure in front of me. The figure — it was a 
man’s — turned suddenly in my direction. We stood 
face to face — 1 and the man to whom I had given — 
ah, I knew it now — my first and true love. He 
looked ten years older, so sad and worn. In the 
one look we exchanged our souls crossed the awful 
gulf that lay between us. 

‘'There is no need to tell all — all the miserable 
truth, but, O, Margaret, my friend, remember, re- 
member, when you judge me, how starved I was 
for human love. Away from parents whom my 
husband did not care for me to see too frequently, 
robbed virtually of my baby and despising my hus- 
band, was there not reason for what followed? 

“I revealed all my bitter story to the man who had 
loved and loved me still. He had come that day to 
Leyton on business, but not long after he sought 


226 


RICH AND WRETCHED 


and obtained a position in Leyton. We met often, 
and though at first we tried to delude ourselves 
with the belief that it was merely as friends, the 
thin disguise of friendship could not long hide the 
truth that love, blind, reckless love was behind it. 

“Then scandal did its blighting work. Strangely 
enough, though pjerhaps it was the irony of retribu- 
tion, the story reached my husband’s ears through 
the woman who had wronged me. He taunted me 
with and accused me of being on a plane with him- 
self in baseness. I protested. Before we parted he 
made me promise that I would never attempt an 
open separation. His noble name, he declared, 
should not be so dishonored. We would live Here- 
after, since I desired it, two separate lives. He 
would not interfere with any affair of the heart in 
which I was concerned, if I would allow the same 
privilege to him. The crimson roses yonder and 
similar ones which you have seen me wear are 
proofs that the contract has been kept. Each day 
they greet my eyes and lay upon my breast the si- 
lent messages of a love which I have no moral 
right to give; and 1 , heaven pity me! I have gloried 
until I met you in flaunting them before my hus- 
band’s face. 

“O, Margaret,” she moaned, “what mnst I do? 
Tell me, tell me,” she cried, clutching wildly at the 
girl’s airm. “You are pure and good and noble — 
would you live as I am living? Would you allow 
your child to grow to womanhood to blush some 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


227 


day at her mother’s name? Could you endure to 
see your little one live and grow within a sin- 
polluted home? Can she be true and noble with 
such a father and such a mother? Have I a right 
to steal into her nursery at night and press a kiss 
on her pure mouth? Tell me, tell me the truth!” 

Margaret looked at the wild-eyed woman at her 
feet. She knew that even had 1 she been able to col- 
lect her thoughts sufficiently to advise her, Ger- 
trude Lawrence was in no condition to listen 
calmly to her. The awful strain was telling fear- 
fully on the frail organism. The white hands 
pressed in Margaret’s were cold as in death, the 
lips and cheeks were bloodless. 

“Gertrude, let me help you to the couch. You 
are far too excited to talk any more now. When 
you are calmer we will talk it over together. I, 
too, dear must have a little time to think. I have 
never been called to answer so grave a question as 
this you have asked me.” 

She bent over the despairing figure and imprinted 
a kiss. Gertrude lifted her head. A look of sad 
wonder crept; into the haggard eyes. 

“You still would kiss me — after all I have told 
you?” she faltered. 

For answer Margaret repeated the caress, 
then with infinite tenderness in her touch, she 
led Gertrude to the couch, and sitting down beside 
her drew the fair head to her breast. The merciful 
dulling of senses that follows undue strain upon 


228 


RICH AND WRETCHED 


the nerves was fast approaching. The heavy lids 
closed! over the lustreless eyes. Gertrudle Lawrence 
slept. 

An hour passed away. The shadows were deep- 
ening in the room. A servant entered to light the 
lamp. Then Margaret disengaged 1 herself from the 
sleeper's arms, and putting on ’(her wraps passed 
noiselessly into the hall. There she met Annette 
coming from the nursery. “Annette,” she said, 
“Mrs. Lawrence has been suffering this afternoon. 
I persuaded her to lie down, and she has fallen 
asleep. I did not wish to disturb her. Tell her, 
please, when she awakes that I will return some- 
time tomorrow to see how she is.” The girl made 
a little courtesy. 

“I am sorry madame ees not well again,” she re- 
plied with a nod of her jauntily-bedecked head. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


MOURNING. 


HEN Margaret entered her aunt’s 
house she felt almost instantly' that 
something out of the ordinary had 
happened. Betty wore a look upon 
her face that suggested to the ob- 
server “I know something I could 
tell!” andi there was the sound of 
quick walking overhead mingled with 
the low murmur of voices from her 
aunt’s room. No one was in the library, though it 
was near the dinner hour. Margaret hastened up- 
stairs, and Maud, wide-eyed and excited, met her 
at the landing. 

“Margaret!” she exclaimed, “guess the news 
we’ve had since you went away. Cousin Hortense 
is dead and Aunt Clarissa and Uncle William and 
cousin Roger are coming home with the body. 
We’re all to dress in mourning, Margaret. I am, 
too, and we’re to give our old clothes to the poor 
tpeople of the parish, mamma says so.” Then in 
an attempted whisper — “Mamma nearly had hys- 
terics. Katheryn had to bathe her face with eau de 
cologne for the longest time. Do you want to come 
in? Yzabel has gone over to the Chattertons to 



23 ° 


MOURNING 


tell Fletcher she can't get up the theatre party 
now. Isn't that mean?" 

Margaret entered Mrs. Lansdowne's room and 
found her aunt stretched upon the couch, her hair 
wildly disheveled, a cut glass smelling salts bottle 
in one hand and a black imported fan in the other. 

“My dear Margaret, I suppose you have heard 
the terrible news," began Mrs. Lansdowne in lach- 
rimose tones while smelling salts was vigorously 
applied. Margaret nodded affirmatively. “And 
who would have thought it! Such a magnificent 
home, such a superior husband, descended from — 
from — O, my poor head. I can't think of anything! 
Whom was he descended from, Katheryn?" 

“Lord Kadshorn, mamma." 

“Thank you, my love. I remember now. I knew 
it was some of the nobility of England. Dear ITor- 
tense. She sent me this fan last Christmas — so 
thoughtful of her! I never dreamed that Christ- 
mas would be her last. Poor William and Clarissa 
— their only child — their all! O, what a wound to 
their ten-der hear-r-ts!" At this juncture Mrs. 
Lansdowne manifested dangerous symptoms of an- 
other hysterical paroxysm. Katheryn dashed a few 
drops of eau de cologne in her face, while Elinoir 
pressed 1 the smelling salts to her mother’s nostrils. 

Margaret tried what she could do by way of 
soothing the highly-wrought woman, whose hys- 
teria had now reached the stage when little spas- 
modic squeals were being sent forth at regular in- 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


231 


tervals. Her efforts at last seemed of some avail, 
for her aunt became quieter and presently asked 
for a glass of claret to restore her shattered nerves. 

“I haven't cried a tear," she explained, “not a 
tear since the news came. I had just returned from 
the French Club — O, no, what am I saying — it was 
the Civic League this afternoon, of course. I think 
you had better telephone to Dr. Winthrop, Elinoir. 
Tell him the awful news and explain in what a ner- 
vous state I am. I know it is a very bad symptom 
not to be able to cry. I have heard him say so. I 
think, Elinoir, he had better call around after his 
office hours this evening." 

“Can I do anything more for you, Aunt Frances,” 
inquired Margaret, kindly. “Shall I arrange your 
pillows more comfortably for you? Perhaps if we 
should turn down the lamp a little you might get 
some sleep." 

“Yes, dear, you may! There, that is more com- 
fortable. You are quite a nurse, child. Don't turn 
the lamp down, though. I am too nervous to sleep. 
I need something to occupy my mind. Katheryn, 
love, suppose you bring that last number of Le Bon 
Ton. It had some beautiful mourning costumes in 
it. One must think and plan, you know, even in 
the midst of sorrows. This is not the first time I 
have known the bitterness of that truth." She 
sighed deeply. 

Margaret could hardly believe the evidence of 
her senses. Was it strange, she asked herself bit- 


232 


MOURNING 


terly, that her aunt had been* unable to weep? 
Could there be any depth of feeling when one could! 
so eaisily dismiss a grief to consider the latest cuts 
in the habilliments of woe? She burned to express 
herself in language arrowed with keen reproof, yet 
she knew that such a course would be entirely lost 
on a woman of her aunt’s nature. She excused her- 
self soon, leaving Mrs. Lansdbwne resting con- 
tentedly upon her pillows and as absorbed in the 
fashion sheet before her as if nothing of more con- 
sequence ait the present time existed. 

In the hall she met Yzabel just returned from 
the Chattertons. 

“O, Margaret, of course you have heard the 
news; isn’t it terrible?” she cried. “It’s so unfor- 
tunate, too, that such a thing should happen right 
in the midst of the season and Elinoir’s first year 
out. Fletcher is awfully cut up. Of course we will 
all go into mourning — mamma very deep. But” — 
very considerately — “it will be much harder on 
Uncle William and Aunt Clarissa than for us.” 

“Yes, I should suppose so,” replied Margaret, 
significantly. She was their all. The blow must 
be a very heavy one to bear.” 

“Is mamma better, Margaret?” 

“She is resting easily now, I think. As I could 
do nothing more, I was just going to my room for 
a few moments. The two girls separated, Yzabel 
going to her mother’s chamber and her cousin 
seeking her own apartment. 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


233 


Margaret Stewart’s nature was not of the phleg- 
matic type which passes through the varying ex- 
periences of life without being to any appreciable 
degree changed thereby; her nature was one which 
the finger of time was daily fashioning into a yet 
higher and far more glorious sphere of activity, 
and this fashioning process involved mortal pangs 
as the immortal essence, little by little, was loos- 
ened from its sensuous and perishable environment. 
The rude awakening to a man’s perfidfy and a wo- 
man’s equally sinful act of closing through her own 
weakness every natural avenue leading to self- 
development, was a shock too great to be realized 
even yet in all its awfulness. This violent disturb- 
ance taking place now in her moral nature was not, 
however, made possible because of any cloistered 
type of innocence. She was too familiar with hu- 
man frailties to have believed the world a place of 
joy and guilelessness. Yet she had not dreamed 
that at the fountainhead of wealth, refinement and 
so-called culture there was to be found! the very in- 
carnation of sin and corruption; that rare oppor- 
tunities had produced the most appalling vices, 
vices far more hideous because of their tinselled* 
masquerading. This was* a truth paralyzing to 
heart and brain. 

She threw herself wearily upon the couch and 
tried to think. Before her mind’s eye arose the oic- 
ture of a beautiful woman — one who might have 
been a power for good in the world, yet living a 


234 


MOURNING 


life false to the most sacred vows a woman is called 
to take, a life even if it had not yet, would lead 1 to 
deeper sin, despair and perhaps death. 

‘‘O, God give me the wisdom to guide her 
aright!” she cried in a very agony of desire; but 
suddenly there came over her a sense of the incon- 
gruity of her situation. Who was she who had ut- 
tered such a prayer! The daughter of a farmer, 
herself rural bred, who, sickening at the ignorance, 
shiftlessness, lack of aspiration of the majority 
around her, had hoped to find a higher ideal in the 
sphere of refinement and intelligence. And what 
had she found? Instead, a deeper and more hope- 
less curse. 

Where, she asked herself wearily, was to be 
found the wisdom she sought? The Almighty, she 
felt, gave not wisdom ready-made. He furnished 
the receptacle, experience filled it. In such attitude 
she had prayed. In such attitude she waited the 
answer, and from her own heart the answer came, 
uncompromising, convincing. She must first grasp 
the solemn truth that in the whole natural universe 
there is not to be found one drop of forgiveness; 
that every ignoble deed or thought breaks) a merci- 
less law and the breech calls for a penalty. Ger- 
trude Lawrence had sinned and her sms would be 
the measure of her suffering. The question was 
primarily one of expiation — the highest and the 
truest. 

So Margaret tried to work out a great ethical 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


235 


problem, one that older and greater minds than 
hers had failed to solve in its entirety. Yet her at- 
tempt, as all such attempts, could not be without 
result. No moral or intellectual struggle is ever 
destitute of issue in the world of spiritual forces. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


THE NEW PURPOSE. 

ARGARET intended to drop in at Mrs. 
Lawrence's the morning following her 
short visit there, but she was obliged 
to relinquish this plan to accompany 
Katheryn on a shopping excursion to 
Leyton. Mrs. Lansdowne felt that no 
time should be lost in regard to the 
mourning gowns. The bereaved fam 
ily were expected shortly now, and the 
habilliments of woe must under no consideration 
be incomplete. 

Margaret had fully expected to receive a note 
from Phillip that morning before going to Leyton, 
but the postman brought letters to her aunt's fam- 
ily only. She was deeply disappointed. It was the 
fifth day since she had seen Phillip, and when un- 
able to call he had been in the habit of sending a 
note every few days just to tell her what he was do- 
ing. These little confidences were valued breaks in 
the monotonous whirl of excitement. 

After luncheon she concluded to wait for the 
afternoon mail before making her postponed call, 
but she was again doomed to disappointment. She 



A MODERN PATRICIAN 


237 


began to fear that Phillip might be ill. With a 
heart by no means light she turned her steps to- 
ward the Elms. 

At the gateway she met Annette starting out 
with little Dorothy. The child was seated in her 
go-cart shrouded so snugly in her white fur robes 
that nothing of her was visible except the little 
white-capped head. Margaret could not resist 
stopping to speak to the child. “Are you going out 
for a ride, Dorothy?” Dorothy smiled and looked 
toward Annette. 

“Allez-vous promener en carosse?” repeated the 
nurse. Dorothy nodded. 

“Eh bien! disez } ‘Oui Madame.’ ” 

Ihe little rosebud lips framed the answer in baby 
accents. 

“She understands not well Anglaise. I speak to 
her always en Francaise , mademoiselle. She ees tine 
petite Francaise enfant ” explained the delighted 
maid. 

“W ell, she is a dear little girl whether French or 
English, I am sure,” responded Margaret. As she 
proceeded up the walk to the grand and sombre 
mansion she thought its cold stateliness symbolic 
of lives behind the dark, carved doors. 

Margaret found Mirs. Lawrence waiting impa- 
tiently for her. Laying her head on Margaret's 
shoulder she sighed: 

“I thought you would never, never come. It has 
seemed so long.” She drew the girl over to a luxu- 


238 


THE NEW PURPOSE 


riously-pillowed window seat and sat down beside 
her. 

Margaret noticed that her friend looked pale and 
worn. There were deep purple shadows under- 
neath her eyes that spoke of an anxious and per- 
haps sleepless night. “I am so sorry, dear, but you 
received my note, did you not? I wanted to come, 
you know.” 

“ O , yes, I knew it was quite impossible; I am so 
sorry, too, for poor Mr. and Mrs. Lansdowne and 
your aunt’s family also. I grow impatient, how- 
ever, over delays. I think this awful and constant 
submission to the inevitable keeps me in a state of 
irritation. I am not physically strong either, and 
yet I am obliged to meet countless demands of so- 
ciety. O, how I envy you your glad, free life. How 
glorious to do only what seems best for you to do. 
O, Margaret, Margaret, I am so wretched — so 
wretched!. If I could only rest! Yet when can I 
find rest? Only in death, I believe. Sometimes I 
think that welcome release will come to me soon.” 

Margaret tried to dissipate such gloomy fore- 
bodings, but Gertrude only smiled, a sad, forced 
smile that seemed to say, “I am ready and longing 
for such relief.” 

“What you need', Gertrude, is a readjustment of 
your life, physically, mentally and morally.” 

“Too late! too late, now for that solution,” 
sighed the despairing woman, pressing her hands 
upon her aching brow. 


/ 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


239 


“You must not say so, dear! However intricate 
has been the path over which you have been wan- 
dering there is — there must be — a way back to 
hope, to truth, to purity. Margaret looked with 
sorrowful tenderness upon the silent, drooping fig- 
ure at her side. She wondered if she comprehended 
the full force of her words. 

‘‘The way back,” she went on slowly, “will not 
be easy. The sword will pierce your very heart, 
but — you must go back!” Gertrude Lawrence 
shuddered, but did not raise her head from her 
hands. 

“Do you think it possible, Gertrude, to live this 
double life and not hopelessly corrupt your own 
nature and perhaps that of your child? Do not 
think, dear, I am hard, unfeeling; remember, I love 
you. You have been wronged — only God knows 
how terribly. You have suffered the deepest hu- 
miliation to which a woman can be subjected, but — 
listen, Gertrude — you are now in your turn wrong- 
ing him whose name you bear.” 

Gertrude lifted her head and fierce denial flashed 
from eyes lately dimmed with grief. 

Margaret put her arm around her companion’s 
waist. “I know that this may seem unjust, severe,” 
she said, “but listen! Your husband has fallen low, 
yet that does not mean that he cannot be wronged. 
Remember, Gertrude, those marriage vows — for- 
saking all others to cleave only unto him as long as 
you both shall live! He has made the strictest in- 


240 


THE NEW PURPOSE 


terpretation of these words impossible for you by 
killing affection; vet still there remains a part for 
you to perform. While he is your husband no 
other man should come between you. You can 
neither honor or love him, but you can and must 
be true to him!” 

“But Margaret,” moaned the unhappy woman, 
“I love another, do you understand? Madly, hope- 
lessly, it may be, but I love him ! He has been the 
only power many times that has kept me from the 
crime of ending my own existence. Does that 
count for nothing?” 

“He saved you from slaying your body, how 
about your soul, Gertrude? Will he save that? 
Which is the greater crime, to kill the body or warp 
the soul?” Gertrude winced under the words as 
under a surgeon's knife. 

“Can you,” went on her self-appointed torturer, 
“bend over that little bed at night in yonder and 
feel that you will always be able to meet the calm 
searching of your daughter's eyes? Could! you, 
should God spare her life, when some day in in- 
dignation and perplexity she came to< you with 
words of scandal she had heard, could you without 
the flush of shame on your cheek answer: ‘My 
child, your father through all these years has been 
untrue to me and I have been untrue to him. We 
have been during this time husband and wife in 
name only. Another has my heart, and through 
all your young life has taken the place of your 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


241 


father/ Can you think what such a revelation 
might mean to her? Do you see what mockery it 
would be ever to plead with her to shun the path 
her mother trod? Do you imagine that if you 
should try, out of a knowledge born of terrible ex- 
perience, to tell her what a faithful wife andi noble 
mother should be like, such words would carry any 
weight with them?” 

A cry of mortal agony was wrung from the tor- 
mented heart. Two hands were raised imploringly 
as if to stop the accusing words. But Margaret 
went on: “And remember, Gertrude, her after life 
is being molded now in a polluted, loveless home. 
You believe in the reality of good? Then, in the 
name of that good, believe, too, in the awful reality 
of evil. Your child is breathing in each day the 
impurity which pervades this home. Every caress 
given her from her father is from impure lips; every 
clasp from her mother comes from arms that have 
trembled in the embraces to which they had neither 
legal or moral right. Stop! stop! where you are, 
first, for the sake of your own soul, next, for the 
sake of your child’s. You who have wealth and 
education and talent, how can you answer for your 
lost, your wrecked opportunities! O, Gertrude, 
Gertrude, if I could make you see it as I see it, 
dear!” Then she put her arms around Gertrude’s 
neck and pressed her lips upon the white pain- 
drawn forehead. Gertrude Lawrence felt as 
though an angel’s lips had touched her for an in- 


242 


THE NEW PURPOSE 


stant. Neither spoke. When at last the silence 
was broken, Gertrude said solemnly: “You have 
done for me more than the angels in heaven could 
have done. I stand, as it were, a culprit before the 
bar of my own higher life, condemned by my own 
blind, mad folly. My duty stands before me plainly 
marked. If I could; ah, if I could have the moral 
courage and” — she paused! and pressed her hand 
again to her panting breast — ‘‘the physical strength 
to perform it! O, Margaret, tell me, db you think 
I could ever become a fit mother to my darling? 
Do you believe I could ever have the wisdom to 
teach her what is grandest and best?” 

It was pitiful to see the hungry, longing look in 
the blue eyes. 

“Do not have a fear, Gertrude,” was the confi- 
dent answer. “N'o human soul that deeply desired 1 
the true and the good ever failed to attain it. The 
law of spiritual growth is endless, burning aspira- 
tion. Before I leave you, promise, promise to do 
what your soul is pleading for you to do!” 

With parted lips, clasped hands and burning 
cheeks, Margaret waited for the answer. 

“O, if I could! If I only could,” was the bitter, 
impotent cry. 

“May I hope that you will try, only hope?” 

Then calmly and tearlessly Gertrude lifted her 
head, the light of a great purpose rested in her 
eyes. 

Margaret saw the light and understood. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


BEFORE THE FIRE COGS. 

HILLIP VAIL sat in his room, a 
plainly furnished apartment (third floor 
rear) of a student's boarding-house. 
He had come in a few moments before, 
restless and tired. He leaned back 
wearily in his arm-chair and reached to 
a table beside him for the evening pa- 
per. As he did so he brushed some- 
thing from the table to the floor. 

“A letter!" he exclaimed in surprised tones. “It 
must have been here when) I was home at noon. 
Strange I did not see it! Humph! A woman's 
handwriting! Looks as if it were Miss Wilby's 
chirography. 

He took his envelope opener, and in a moment 
had solved the problem of authorship. He read: 
“My dear Mr. Vail: 

I am in a terrific hurry, just going to town; but 
I want to invite you over to a little informal which 
I am giving for your cousin, Miss Stewart. 

Now don’t for the world say you have another en- 
gagement, for my heart will be pierced through and 
through with disappointment. O, I almost forgot 
to give the time — Thursday evening. 

Mother said a little while ago (mothers never 




244 


BEFORE THE FIRE LOGS 


forget anything — -I hope I shall be even half as 
smart as mine when I am old) — that you said 
something about Thursday being an: evening off 
with you. Now do come! 

Mother joins me in kindest regards to you, and 
we hope to see you tomorrow evening without fail . 

Very cordially yours, 
MAEBELLE WILBY." 

Then came the woman's regulation afterthought. 

“F. S. — I have seen to it that Miss Stewart has 
company. Mr. Douglass will bring her over. I 
knew it would be so much out of your way to go 
to the Lansdowne's, and as your cousini and Mr. 
Douglass are very good friends, I thought it would 
be all right to make arrangement. Once more, 
don't disappoint me!!! M. W." 

Phillip tossed the note over on the table. The # 
faintest scent of violets was wafted to his nostrils. 
He remembered to have heard, he forgot where, 
that a partiality for the violet was indicative of re- 
finement. A smile, half cynical, curled his lips. 
Then he heard the heavy tread) of feet coming up 
the stairs, and in a moment a loud, cheery voice 
demanded 1 entrance. The cynical smile vanished in- 
stantly. “Come in, Forsythe," he called out, at the 
same time replenishing the fire. 

The newcomer was a tall, strapping fellow of 
about twenty-five. He was well-dressed, and, bar- 
ring the appearance of the thick, black hair, parted 
in the middle and brushed till it had attained the 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


245 


ultra-fashionable polish, he bore the mark of one 
possessing rather more than the average amount of 
intellect. 

“That fire looks inviting, Vail. It's beastly cold. 
I was out making a few professional calls. I’ve 
gone the rounds and thought I’d drop in here a 
few moments.” 

“How is your practice? Growing, Forsythe?” 

“O, the practice is all right. It grows amain. 
I ? m not so confident about myself, Vail. You see 
that old dottard of an uncle was possessed to make 
a professional man of me, and I had to submit to 
the inevitable for the sake of self-preservation.” 

“Self-preservation?” 

“Yes, that’s the word. I want that golden pile 
when the old gentleman takes it into his head to 
capitulate. I can’t do without it, that’is the long 
and short of it. I wasn’t brought up to work. My 
working faculties were blunted in my youth, I 
guess. I don’t seem to have any now. Medicine 
is a profession one can get along in with little stock 
in trade. The gulling process can be very profit- 
ably applied.” 

Phillip Vail’s face darkened ominously, but his 
companion was gazing into the glowing embers. 

“I’ll branch off later into a specialist,” he contin- 
ued, smoothly; “a specialist, I think, of nervous dis- 
eases. Two-thirds gob, one-third sugar pills — all 
that is necessary.” A broad smile spread over his 


246 


BEFORE THE FIRE LOGS 


face. He threw his fine head back and burst into 
a loud laugh. 

“There are just lots of ’em giving their old family 
physicians the go-by, because I pamper them up a 
little — tell them they look prettier sick than well; 
that they have a peculiarly fine-strung organism, 
smile on the daughters when there are any, and 
eureka! I have them call at my office if they have 
a pain in their little finger. Practice? Bless you! 
I’ll soon have to have a partner. You see, a fellow 
with a five hundred thousand dollar bank account 
waiting for him isn’t to be sneezed at. Now this 
may sound a little egotistical, but it’s the solemn 
fact — I could get every girl in Beechdale or Leyton 
worth having. They actually throw themselves at 
me! I can’t take them all, dear things.” 

Phillip could keep silent no longer. “Forsythe, 
if I did not know you so well — didn’t know you 
really had the making of a man in you, that you 
didn’t mean half of what you say, I would call you 
to order for maligning our profession in this way. 
Don’t you dare, Forsythe, to say that such meth- 
ods as you have described are universal. There 
are many men — thank God for them — who are 
worthy of their calling, who love their work as 
they do their life; and there are women, God pity 
you if you have never met them — I have — who 
could not be so ‘gulled’ as you call it.” 

Forsythe saw he had gone too far. He stretched 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


247 


his big frame out in the chair and smiled and 
yawned to hide his embarrassment. 

“O, I didn't mean anything personal, Vail; don't 
take it so to heart. You’ll be the orthodox kind, 
but, you see, I wasn’t brought up that way. It 
isn't my fault. But, to change the subject, of 
course, you're invited over to Wilby's, Thursday 
evening?" 

“Yes," said Phillip, touching the note on the 
table. “I had just finished reading this when you 
came. You are going?" 

“I suppose so. Have to take in these things, 
now and then, you know, to keep up appearances. 
It's an awful bore for a fellow, but, you see, in the 
long run it benefits — !" Forsythe stopped abrupt- 
ly and looked as one might who is brought up 
against some obstruction with uncomfortable sud- 
denness. Phillip broke out into a good-natured 
laugh as he noted the horror depicted on his 
friend's face. 

“Never mind, Forsythe, you're forgiven. That 
apology of yours settled matters between us." 

The young giant breathed easily and proceeded 
in his observations. 

“That Wilby girl's a lark! She and her mother 
together are matrimonial canvassers, I tell you. 
Plenty more like 'em, though. I met them both in 
the city about a week ago, and they invited me to 
treat them to high-balls. They asked all sorts of 
questions about you, Vail. I guess that is why 


248 


BEFORE THE FIRE LOGS 


they bagged me. Howbeit they liked the high- 
balls, all right. I had to get a cab to take them 
home. I suppose you'll take your cousin. She's 
a fine girl, Vail. I met her the other day on the 
street. I wasn't able to go that night at the Lans- 
downe's." 

“Well, I tell you, Forsythe, I am not anxious to 
go, but Miss Wilby will take a refusal as a personal 
insult, I am afraid. I met her for the first time at 
Mrs. Lansdowne's. She has telephoned to me three 
times and sent a special delivery or two since then 
— all invitations for me to come out, but I was al- 
ways too busy to go. Tomorrow I have no spe- 
cial work and I presume I will have to resign my- 
self to the inevitable. I'm not extra company for 
her style. I get disgusted and shut up like a clam. 
Can't help it. My vocal cords seem to ossify. But 
I'll not take Miss Stewart if I go." He laughed 
meaningly. “Here's her note. Read 1 it; I guess 
she would have no objection to my showing it." 
Forsythe read it. “Lord!" he ejaculated, “hasn't 
she fixed that fine? An informal for Miss Stewart! 
Better say an informal for Mr. Vail. The whole 
shooting match is for you, man. Of course, she 
didn’t want you to bring your cousin! That's clear 
as daylight. She doesn't want you tied to anyone 
but herself for the evening. I'd go just to see what 
she will do. It will be as good as a circus. By 
the way, Douglass is rather smitten with your 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


249 


cousin, isn't he? Big family and big money there. 
About the top of the heap in Beechdale." 

Phillip threw on another log of wood. 

“It's cold, a good blaze makes one feel better," 
he said. “By the way, Forsythe, what kind of a 
fellow is Douglass — his character, I refer to. You 
see, Miss Stewart's father would never forgive me 
if I allowed her to fall into the hands of one of these 
degenerate blase millionaires, when I might have 
helped it. You have been living here for years and 
ought to be posted." 

“O, I don't know whether he would come up 
quite to your standard, Vail, but he's a mighty nice 
fellow. A hundred per cent better than the ma- 
jority. Good sense, you know," and, tapping his 
head significantly — “brains!" 

“I would like you to be more definite, Forsythe. 
Why do you think he would not come up to my 
standard?" 

“Well, you see, Vail, you have given me in a few 
private interviews the benefit of some of your lofty 
notions — don't mistake me when I use that term — 
they are lofty, I feel it, and I know you and Doug- 
lass would hardly agree — not in action, anyway; 
you might in principle." 

“Don't talk in this vague way, Forsythe," ex- 
claimed Phillip, impatiently. “Has the man done 
anything for which he should be ashamed? That 
is what I want to know. You might as well tell 
me the truth. I'll find out from some one else if 


250 


BEFORE THE FIRE LOGS 


you do not choose to reveal it. I will never use 
your name, be sure of that/’ 

Forsythe still hestitated and eyed Phillip suspic- 
iously. “Physicians and lawyers have to be close- 
mouthed. It’s a sort of unwritten law, you know, 
among them. You’re an advocate of principle, I 
believe.” It was a coup d'etat on Forsythe’s part, 
and the words struck home. “You are right, For- 
sythe,” returned Phillip, quickly. “I expect some 
time to be a physician myself. My personal re- 
sponsibility made me shoot beyond my mark.” 

“Your personal affection, you’d better say,” was 
Forsythe’s! shrewd, mental observation. Aloud he 
said, in relenting way: 

“I tell you, Vail, if you jolly Major Dearborne I 
think you’ll be on the right track. He and Doug- 
lass used to be cronies in a certain way, I guess. 
You’ve met the Major’s wife, haven’t you? She’s 
a hummer. She and Douglass used to be the best 
of friends before the Major married her. Don’t 
seem to hitch so well now, I’ve noticed.” A blast 
of wind rattled the window panes and sent a puff 
of smoke down the chimney. 

Forsythe rose from his chair and looked out. 

“Really, I must be going. Peggy will be frozen 
stiff. It’s spitting snow, too. Well, you’ll go to 
Wilby’s, won’t you? I have some business in Ley- 
ton and have to be in town about seven Thursday. 
Come over to The Elberon and have dinner with 
me. We’ll go out together.” 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


251 


‘Thank you, Forsythe. I suppose it would be 
better to show myself this once, under the circum- 
stances.” 

“All right; good-bye! good-bye! Fll be waiting 
for you tomorrow evening.” 

Phillip closed the door and lighted his lamp. 
Then he took up the Post and tried to read. In- 
stead, he looked into the fire and mused. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


THE GIDDY MAZE. 

Y five o’clock Thursday evening Phillip 
had changed his mind some dozen 
times as to the advisability of going to 
the Wilby’s. Several reasons opposed 
an affirmative decision, several others 
prompted him to a contrary resolve. 
But one argument seemed to weigh 
most heavily in favor of his presence 
there, and this at last brought him to 
a conclusion; he wanted to assure himself whether 
he had reason to suspect anything deeper than 
mere friendship existing between his cousin and 
Douglass. If he were satisfied that there was, he 
would follow up the cue given him by Forsythe. 
She should 1 not sacrifice herself on the altar of so- 
cial corruption without knowing what the horror 
of it meant. Then he told himself over and over 
again, as he thought of the possible issue, that it 
would! be imperative on him to keep guard over his 
own heart, to never let her know by look or word 
that she was other to him than his cousin, playfel- 
low of many childhood days, the happy congenial 
companion of last winter’s games and summer 
rambles. Like Enoch Arden, he went: 



A MODERN PATRICIAN 


253 


“Beating it in upon his weary brain, 

As though it were the burden of a song, 

'Not to tell her, never to let her know’.” 

A little later, when he received a telephone mes- 
sage from the impatient, expectant Maebelle, he 
made her heart glad by an answer of acceptance. 

Both Mrs. Wilby and her daughter welcomed 
Dr. Forsythe and Phillip most effusively. Mr. Wil- 
by, explained that worthy gentleman’s wife, had 
come very near to weeping simply because he had 
been obliged to absent himself on account of a 
pressing engagement. This announcement Phillip 
was ready to take as a genuine explication of mat- 
ters, but Forsythe was cruel enough to whisper in 
his friend’s ear a vastly different interpretation of 
the millionaire’s absence. The story that Lancas- 
ter Wilby was subject to periodic revels, which left 
him in such an exhausted state as to necessitate a 
few days at the Blue Blood Club for recuperation, 
was common property in Leyton. 

Margaret was looking fairer than ever, Phillip 
thought, and she was so unfeignedly glad to see 
him that he almost forgot how great a gulf was per- 
haps even then fixed between them. They chatted 
away ten minutes or so, quite as unreservedly as if 
they had been sitting around the lamp at Clover 
Farm. Then Douglass strolled over. 

“Glad to see you, Vail,” he said, giving Phillip 
a hearty pat on the shoulder. “Taking an evening 
off?” 


2 54 


THE GIDDY MAZE 


“Yes, you know the adage — 'all work and no 
play makes Jack a dull boy/ Fm trying to look 
after my future, you see. I was just telling Miss 
Stewart concerning a plan in that direction. I 
have about made up my mind to invest in a horse. 
My uncle has been bothering me to death lately 
about taking more exercise. I have always been 
passionately fond of horses, and he remembers it. 
I suppose it would be the part of wisdom to heed 
his warning to take a ride every day. He has such 
abounding faith in me, too, dear old man, that he 
actually thinks there is not the slightest doubt of 
my needing the horse after awhile more than I do 
now.” 

“Well, that’s all right, Vail,” answered Douglass, 
with an unnatural earnestness in his voice, “it is 
the faith which people have in us — those better, 
perhaps, and more courageous than ourselves — 
that spurs us on to noble effort. We don’t like to 
fall short of the mark they set for us. That is a 
sort of silent preaching that would do me more 
good than a clever sermon.” 

Miss Wilby joined the group, and the subject ot 
discussion was dropped. She drew Phillip into a 
tete-a-tete , and as the music started a few moments 
after, he was obliged, out of courtesy, to ask her to 
dance. In a short time the whole company were 
whirling through the! swift wild mazes of a waltz. 

Phillip and his partner passed Margaret and 
Douglass several times, but when the first number 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


255 


was finished, the two disappeared from the drawing 
room. 

For the next, Forsythe and Phillip exchanged 
partners. Miss Fenten was a tall, pale-faced girl 
and looked, Phillip thought, as though she would 
have been better off at home. 

“Do you know, Mr. Vail, I am a perfect fiend 
about dancing, and when one is so fortunate as to 
be with such a perfect dancer as you it is a double 
temptation; ” Miss Fenten had dropped her hand- 
kerchief, and the two had come to a sudden! halt. 

Phillip had never been particularly proud of 
achievements in the Terpsychorean accomplish- 
ment. He could not forbear a furtive smile. 
“Thank you, Miss Fenten, for your complimentary 
remark, but I hardly think I deserve it. I have al- 
ways felt very postive that nature never meant me 
for a dancer/’ 

“O, I can hardly remember when I did not 
dance,” pursued Miss Fenten. “I believe it has 
been ever since I began to walk. I was very deli- 
cate in my childhood and had to be taken out of 
school. The doctor prescribed dancing for exer- 
cise, and to take up my mind — it seems very warm 
in here, Mr. Vail. I — ” Miss Fenten’s conversa- 
tion suddenly came to an end. Her head fell heav- 
ily, and this time most unnaturally, on Phillip’s 
shoulder. He supported her half-fainting form in 
his strong arms and placed her in a chair just at 
hand. 


25 6 


THE GIDDY MAZE 


“I feel so dizzy/* she gasped, closing her eyes. 
“A little water, please, and I will be all right. Don’t 
tell Mrs. Wilby. She’ll say I must not dance again 
again this evening. I’ll die, if I couldn’t!” 

Phillip, pledged to secrecy, hastened toward the 
dining room beyond for a glass of water from a 
servant. To be less observed, he went through 
the conservatory instead of the hall. He had ad- 
vanced but a few steps into the room when he be 
came aware of two figures standing in the dimly- 
lighted and heavily scented room.. Their backs 
were toward him, and so absorbed did they seem 
in each other that they did not hear his footsteps on 
the marble floor. The two were partially concealed 
by the palms against which they stood and Phillip 
did not at first recognize them. He merely noted 
the light dress of the woman andi the man’s tall, 
dark figure beside her. Then he heard Douglass’ 
voice — low, passionate : 

“I have tried — I have fought against it again and 
again — but tonight I must speak! Margaret, Mar- 
garet, I love you! What have you to answer?” 

Phillip, with brain and heart as if paralyzed, 
turned and made his way again to the room, where 
sat the girl he had left a moment before. When he 
saw her, pale and leaning back against her chair, he 
came to himself. He remembered then what had 
taken him to that fateful room. Miss Fenten lifted 
her head wearily and looked at him. He opened 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


257 


his dry lips to speak. His voice sounded queer 
and hollow to his own ears. 

“Miss Fenten, I went the wrong way, I think. I 
will have the water in a moment. Pardon me for 
keeping you waiting.” 

Soon he returned with the glass of water and 
she drank eagerly of it. 

“Miss Fenten,” he said, “we will sit out the rest 
of this dance, and I advise you not to indulge again 
tonight.” 

“O, how do you suppose I did such a ridiculous 
thing?” she said, toying in an embarrassed way 
with her handkerchief. “I guess we were going al- 
most too quickly for me, and the room is warm.” 

“Whatever the cause, Miss Fenten, if you were 
my sister I should insist that you never dance 
again,” he said, earnestly, his professional concern 
getting the better of his discretion. 

“O, Mr. Vail, how glad I am that I am not your 
sister,” she replied, meltingly. “But really, would 
you rather I would not dance?” 

“I am speaking from a purely medical stand- 
point,” he said, a little coldly. “I should give the 
sarnie advice to anyone whom I saw blindly disre- 
garding the laws of health for the transient pleas- 
ure of the moment.” He saw she had read into his 
words something far other than he had intended, 
and accordingly his retreat was the more pro- 
nounced. 

The girl felt the change, and fighting against her 


258 


THE GIDDY MAZE 


present indisposition, she arose and! said, almost 
defiantly : 

“I don’t propose to take your advice. I prom- 
ised this next to Mr. Freeman and I am not going 
to disappoint him. There he is now coming for me. 
Good-bye! Thanks just the same for your kind in- 
terest.” 

Phillip stood for a moment alone, watching the 
gay dancers. He longed to rush away from it all. 
He wished he had never come. He — but here he 
asked himself bitterly, whether such complaints 
were not unfair to Fate; had she not fulfilled his 
desire tonight; had she not flung to him the very 
boon for which he had asked? He was satisfied 
now as to the relations existing between Douglass 
and his cousin — at least partially so. When he saw 
their faces again he would know the whole story 
as well as if he had heard it. And then for the 
prison bars against his rebellious heart-bars never 
again to be lowered! “What have you to answer?” 
The words were burned into his soul! He had 
thought over and over how he would meet, like a 
man, without flinching, the truth that he felt now 
was sure to be revealed; yet now because the time 
of his trial was at last upon him; because things 
reasoned upon in the quiet of the closet are far dif- 
ferent from the realization of them, he felt weak 
as a little child. He knew now how slight had been 
his acquaintance with his own heart. 

He heard the sound of footsteps. It was Marga- 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


259 


ret and Douglass. He knew her light foot-fall and 
the very swish of her gown over the polished floor. 
He felt that the bitter conflict through which he 
had passed must have left marks visible to a keen 
eye, but he could thank Heaven that she would be 
too happy to discern them. So he did not flee from 
her presence, but turned and met her — smiling, 
beautiful, with Douglass by her side. 

“You here and alone, Phillip?” she cried. 
“Aren’t you ashamed to hide yourself and with 
girls crazy to dance with you?” 

“I had such an unfortunate experience a few mo- 
ments ago I was afraid to venture again. I swung 
Miss Fenten around at such a rate she nearly 
fainted.” 

“I saw her just now with Freeman,” broke in 
Douglass with a laugh. “Probably she was over- 
come again. She was leaning pretty heavily on the 
poor little fellow. They’re rather turned about as 
to size. Even with his stove-pipe Freeman can’t 
reach Miss Fenten’s top feather. By the way, I 
heard only a little while ago that they were en- 
gaged. Not publicly announced yet, however. 
Don’t say I told you. Forsythe told me not to tell, 
you know, and Freeman told him not to tell. We 
have to preserve some honor about these confi- 
dences.” 

Phillip thought that Douglass had never seemed 
so light-hearted before. The dancing had ceased 


26 o 


THE GIDDY MAZE 


for a few moments, but the music now began again. 
Phillip turned to Margaret. 

“Are you engaged for this dance? Being the 
honored guest I hardly dared to hope for one to- 
night from you. Cousins or brothers get ousted in 
a rush, don’t they, Douglass?” 

“Sometimes they do; sometimes they do not,”, 
laughed Douglass. “I don’t believe you will. Miss 
Stewart is too kind-hearted for that?” 

The words stung Phillip. “O, I hardly need to 
be pitied,” he returned. “I am not so partial to 
dancing as to tax Miss Stewart’s sympathies be- 
cause of a momentary bereft condition.” 

“Why, Phillip, I don’t pity you at all. The very 
idea! with about a dozen girls wild to dance with 
you. I feel quite honored. Come, let’s start!” 

She put out her hand to Phillip. As she did so 
his jealous eye intercepted a look between his 
cousin and Douglass that seemed, to his turbulent 
hart, so say: “In a little while we will be together 
again.” 

“The next is mine, Miss Stewart. I’ll rest out 
this one,” he called to Margaret as she and Phillip 
whirled off. 

Phillip never knew how he was able to bungle 
through that waltz. A heavy heart makes lagging 
step. He felt her warm breath upon his face once 
but he did not trust himself to look into her eyes — 
those beautiful, tell-tale eyes. He could not endure 
to read their story. He held her to him as he 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


261 


would have held her had she been dead; — hopeless, 
all love’s passion spent. The blow had deadened 
the very powers of emotion, and he might as well 
have had any other woman in his clasp. He 
thanked God when the music ceased. “Phillip, you 
are looking tired tonight,” she said, concern in her 
voice. “I am sure you are studying too hard, or — 
is it, come tell me, that these affairs bore you in- 
sufferably.” 

“They are horrible bores,” he said, relieved that 
she had hit upon this cause for, what must seem to 
her, moodiness of manner. “I came tonight merely 
to honor you. My mind is on other things. I am 
not fit for such places as these. No one woulff 
think, though” — and his tone changed to one of 
lighter humor, — “that you were not ‘to the manner 
born.’ You belong here rather than to the clover 
fieldis.” 

“Phillip,” she answered, a little gravely, “remem- 
ber things are not always what they seem. Beside, 
the clover fields may need me.” Before he could 
answer, Douglass came, and Phillip said, gra- 
ciously: 

“Douglass, here is your partner, safe. I was 
more fortunate with her than with Miss Fenten. 

I guess I had better go over here and pay off some 
of my debts.” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


HOPELESS AND HEARTLESS. 

ERTRUDE LAWRENCE sat alone in 
her sitting-room. She tapped the foot- 
rest nervously with one daintily-shod 
foot and her eyes turned frequently to- 
ward an ormolu time-piece on the man- 
tel. The hands of the clock pointed to 
half-past ten, and' just as one silvery 
peal disturbed the quiet of the room she 
heard her husband's latch-key in the 
door. The look of expectancy gradually changed 
into one of dread. She pressed her hands over her 
eyes and her lips moved tremulously. 

The footsteps delayed a moment or so in the up- 
per hall and then advanced toward her room. The 
door was open, but a rich Oriental drapery took 
its place. He paused, then pushed aside the hang- 
ing. 

“Gertrude," he said, “I am here. I believe you 
said at dinner you wished to see me as soon as I 
was at leisure." He spoke with the quick, nervous 
accents of a man who feels that he has a distasteful 
duty to perform and wishes to< get through with 
the ordeal as soon as possible. He placed a chair 
opposite his wife and by the side of a table upon 



A MODERN PATRICIAN 


263 


which stood a decanter and several glasses. He 
poured a glass of the sparkling beverage and 
drained it off. 

‘‘Well, Gertrude/’ he exclaimed!, holding the 
empty glass between his fingers, “I presume I have 
been summoned here for a lecture. I will tell you 
to begin with, however, that I am in no mood to- 
night to listen to your complaints. We agreed 
long since to go our separate ways without ques- 
tion. If I have found it more convenient the last 
few nights to find shelter from wintry blasts within 
other walls than those of home, I hardly think, un- 
der our compact, you have any need to call me to 
task.” 

Something in her face made him pause a mo- 
ment and look at her curiously. “I may be wrong, 
but I judged this to be the cause for the invitation 
to my wife’s room.” 

She turned full upon him a pair of flashing, in- 
dignant eyes. 

“You have gone widely of the mark in your sup- 
position. I have something of far more importance 
to say than touching your absence from home. I 
have no desire to dictate in such matters. What I 
am going to say, Aubrey, has not originated from 
the impulse of a moment.” The white lids dropped 
an instant, and when they were raised again the 
fires of anger had withdrawn. “It is the result of 
long and deep consideration. Neither do I speak 


264 HOPELESS AND HEARTLESS 


from a heart filled with anger but from one weary, 
O, so weary of strife.” 

“Gertrude, don’t be dramatic, I warn you,” he 
broke in, impatiently. “I hate such business! I am 
not to be cajoled by strategy. Speak out plainly, 
not in riddles. What is it you wished to say to me? 
Be brief and to the point. I am tired tonight.” 

“I did not for a moment expect to use strategy,” 
she replied, calmly. “I desire only that you should 
understand. I did not ask you to come here out of 
mere whim. I will be to the point and be brief. I 
have taken this opportunity to plead a second and 
last time, Aubrey, for my freedom. Let me finish,” 
she cried, despairingly, as he made an impatient at- 
tempt to rise from his chair — “I am a slave here — 
a slave in a gilded palace, but the more miserable 
because it is so. I have never seen the horror, the 
degradation of my state as I see it now. Aubrey, 
before God, whatever I am before the world, I am 
no more your wife than that other woman whom 
both man and God would refuse to acknowledge as 
such. She and I — O, Heaven, the shame of it! hold 
the same relation to you — I here, she yonder.” 

A sneering, unlovable laugh broke from her hus- 
band’s lips. He poured out another draught from 
the decanter, then settled back easily in his chair 
and eyed her between his half-closed lids. 

“Since when have you so changed your standard 
of morals, Gertrude?” he inquired. “It strikes me 
(excuse my allusion to embarrassing circum- 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


265 


stances) that if I so desired, I might bring up a lit- 
tle account against you. Come, we have always 
been quite frank with each other, how do you feel 

about that little affair with ” She raised her 

hand, imploringly. “Certainly, if you wish it. No 
necessity for mentioning names. I see you remem- 
ber perfectly; but in the light of — of your new code 
of ethics, shall we say? suppose you try a little in- 
trospection. I should like to have the result. It 
would be — ah — amusing.” Had he been something 
more than the brute he was, had he possessed for 
her even one scintilla of the mercy which he daily 
showed toward his dogs and horses, had there been 
in his whole make-up one spark of the divine he 
could not so have looked at her and driven the iron 
into her soul. 

She lifted her face — white as the drifted snow, 
toward him. Her agony seemed to impress him as 
ludicrous. He laughed. 

“You think,” she asked in a panting whisper, 
“that you can silence me by casting my own shame 
in my teeth? You cannot. I am no coward to- 
night, however weak and abject I have been before. 
I am making no plea in extenuation of my own sin 
— a sin, however, only in this, that another had the 
confidence which, though you cast away, I had no 
right to give elsewhere.” 

“Confidence! ha! ha! a pretty word! Would it 
not be better, Gertrude, for us to keep that little 
agreement which we made some time ago? You 


266 HOPELESS AND HEARTLESS 


remember? To say just what we mean, you know; 
no jugging with words. If you insist uppn calling 
things by new names, why not speak of my little 
affair as — misplaced confidence ?” 

She arose from her chair. He could not remem- 
ber ever to have seen her in so violent a mood. It 
took him by surprise. 

“How dare you! How dare you speak such 
words to me! I stand before you, Aubrey Law- 
rence, as pure a woman as the day you led me to 
the altar, when, with perjured lips, you plighted 
your troth. Your own black heart must needs im- 
pute corruption to every other. I dreamed once 
that I loved you. I did not know then that it was a 
blind fascination which when the idol was broken 
would vanish. I fell — but in that fall I caught a 
glimpse of the vision of love, and I said — love is a 
union of souls. I thought I realized that love in 
another, but I needed to fall once more. This fall, 
I think, has been to the bottomless pit, for I have 
seen the vision of my own unrighteousness and 
have cried in my agony — God show me what love 
is! The vision came again, and I saw that love is 
truth. Corruption nor deception, nor anything that 
will defile is love.” 

Her passion spent, she sank exhausted in her 
chair. The look of cool scorn that had rested on 
Aubrey Lawrence’s features disappeared. A frown, 
dark, angry, gathered on his brow. He reached for 
the decanter, but his wife’s cold, white hand 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 267 

pressed 1 heavily upon his arm. “For God's sake, 
do not take another drop! You need your brain to 
think. We must settle a question of life or death 
tonight." He shook off her hand as if it had been 
a viper. “Woman! Am I to be your slave? Am I 
to cringe and simper when you say the word? Why 
have you the stuff here? To look at? Some more 
of your affected piety, eh? Your lips are not so un- 
tainted that you have the right to warn." 

“Who taught me to drink it?" she retorted, 
stung to desperation, “but I am not screening my- 
self. I plead tonight that you will not benumb your 
power to reason; that you may grant me justice. 
Aubrey, I am not pleading for myself alone, but for 
my child also. Think, O think, while you can of 
what it means to rear this little, tender flower with- 
out a ray of the light of purity. What will she be, 
what must she be, breathing into her soul the 
germs of sin? Let me take her — she is mine — 
away, far away from here, try to teach her what is 
good and true. Do not, do not look at me that 
way, Aubrey, with that smile upon your face! I 
know what you would say — what do I know of 
goodiness and truth?- But I do know it now. 
Through suffering I have learned and I can live it 
in my little child. Give her to me, Aubrey. Give 
me one more chance to be a noble woman. I will 
go away any place you say. I will never see his 
face again, nor by one written word' communicate 
with him. From this night he will be as one who 


268 HOPELESS AND HEARTLESS 


has never existed. I swear it! That is my sacrifice. 
Only give me my child, the one pure heart that yet 
may save me! Aubrey, speak to me!” 

He pushed back the decanter from him and fixed 
his cold, grey eyes upon her. “I will obey you,” 
he said, touching with his diamond ring the cut 
glass until it rang. “I wish you to feel that I am 
fully capable of acting tonight. I will be brief, for 
I have, as you know, no special delight in scenes. 

“You remember, perhaps, that when I married I 
took my wife from a relatively obscure position. I 
think you felt it; at least you so expressed your- 
self.” ’ 

She nodded in acquiescence. 

“Very good! You knew, too, that my family 
was proud and conservative; that the name of Law- 
rence had for generations been associated with the 
most aristocratic families, both in this country and 
across the sea. Whatever may have been their 
slight, secret offences, no notorious blot has ever 
marred their escutcheon. I am the eldest son of 
my branch. I do not propose, because of a mere 
woman’s whim to bring upon my family the sneers, 
the gibes of society. Do as you please in all things, 
but the breaking publicly of the bonds which, 
though galling to both of us, must, nevertheless, 
bind. If the house becomes at times unendurable 
you may on the slightest excuse have a respite. 
The child, while she is a child, may go with you, 
accompanied by her nurse — but the dignity of the 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


269 


family must be upheld under all circumstances. 
Whatever be the cause of this present attitude of 
yours, I beg of you for your own peace of mind, 
as well as of mine, to change it. Remember, please, 
I do not wish to be summoned on another such 
fool’s errand as the one tonight. You know my 
decision. It is final. If you should, however, per- 
sist in your absurd ideas, in spite of my wishes, 
your own name shall pay the penalty. I have 
wealth and influence on my side. You have noth- 
ing. The breath of scandal can shrivel the purest, 
what will it do with you? Any fanatical course will 
mean banishment from your home and child and 
lasting calumny. I am not the man to merely 
threaten. I wish you to understand, Gertrude, that 
my honor and that of my family cannot be treated 
lightly with impunity.” He rose from the chair and 
pointed to the clock. “It is late; have you any 
more to say?” 

“Nothing,” she answered mechanically. 

He scanned her colorless face narrowly. He felt 
that his words had clinched the matter; that the 
desired result was obtained. He could afford, 
therefore, to be gracious. “Gertrude,” he said, a 
little less sternly, “I advise you to retire immedi- 
ately. You are in no condition to undergo excite- 
ment such as you have brought upon yourself this 
evening. Good-night !” 

When he had left she turned toward the decanter 
that had been used so freely by her husband. She 


270 HOPELESS AND HEARTLESS 


poured out a wineglass full to the brim and drank 
it. Then she went over to her desk, took a piece 
of note paper and wrote clearly and firmly: 

“Dear Margaret: 

Tonight I asked for my freedom and was refused. 
The fetters that bind my soul are to bind it until 
the end, I should have foreseen how futile it would 
all have been. Yet do not pity me. I ami only 
reaping the awful results of my own blind actions. 
My husband can see in me only one not otherwise 
than himself; perhaps in one sense this is true — 
quite true. 

“You will say, I know, that I am now absolved 
from any further duty toward him; that my duty 
now is toward myself atone. The consequences, 
however, of acting upon such a decision, have been 
pointed out to me. I stand appalled 1 . God help 
me! I have not the courage to be true to myself. 
My darling child alone could save me, and my in- 
dependent act would be the barrier that would sep- 
arate us. Too late I see in this hour of need what 
a character, free from even the breath of suspicion, 
would be to me. Tonight the die has been cast 
and my destiny settled. 

“I know this will wound your pure, sweet soul, 
but do not shed one tear for me. I feel that soon 
I will be beyond this earthly strife. I know not 
what awaits me yonder. 

“With thankfulness for the one bright glimpse of 
truth, though the glimpse has madte my own dark- 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


2JI 


ness more impenetrable, I will say, good-night. 

“GERTRUDE.” 

■She! folded the note, placed it in an envelope and 
directed it; then rising, pressed an electric bell. As 
she did so she put her hand suddenly against her 
breast. 

“Lena,” she said to the maid when she appeared 
in the doorway, “1 wish you would 1 have James 
post this letter tonight. It is important. Do not 
let him forget it. He has not retired, yet, I hope.” 

“Nfo, ma'am/’ replied the girl. 

“I wish you would come to me then, Lena. I 
am not feeling well this evening. I must have a 
little aid.” 

The girl was not long in discharging her errand 
and was soon once more with her mistress. 

“I would like to kiss my baby. She always looks 
so sweet in her little bed,” she said when Lena 
had robed her for the night. 

“O, let me help you, ma'am! You seem so very 
weak. I hope you're not going to have one of your 
bad spells," exclaimed the girl, as Gertrude almost 
tottered through the nursery door. 

Annette opened her eyes slightly and looked half- 
startled toward the figure! bending over little Doro- 
thy. 

“Mon dieu, you do frighten me! she exclaimed. 
“It seemed a spirit — vraiment!” 

Her mistress smiled sadly. “I only wanted to 


272 HOPELESS AND HEARTLESS 


kiss my baby, Annette. I have seen her only once 
today.” Then she turned and left. 

“My heart is troubling me tonight,” she said, as 
Lena tucked her carefully in bed. “Place that bot- 
tle on the table here, Lena. I may — perhaps — need 
it if I do not get to sleep. You need not bother to 
come in again. I will ring the bell should I need 
you.” 

Lena slept with one eye open through the night, 
but no call came from Mrs. Lawrence's room. “She 
must be resting well,” she told herself, and at last, 
toward morning, fell into a sound sleep. 

When she awoke the bright morning sunshine 
was streaming into the room, and it was nearly 
eight. She dressed hurriedly and went into her 
mistress’ room. She lay just as the girl had left 
her, except that one fair hand was outstretched 
upon the coverlet. It looked strangely white and! 
lifeless. Instinctively Lena touched! it with her 
own. It was cold and the girl fled terrified from 
the chamber. 

Mr. Lawrence and physicians were summoned, 
but Gertrude Lawrence was beyond medical aid. 
They stood a few moments looking upon the fea- 
tures, calm now, but with a calm that was frozen 
there. 

“She has been dead, Mr. Lawrence, for six or 
seven hours,” said Dr. Winthrop. Then he lifted 
up the little bottle and whisper*. few words in 
Aubrey Lawrence’s ear. 




A MODERN PATRICIAN 


273 


A flush mounted to the dark brow. “My fam- 
ily” — he began, excitedly. The physician glanced 
at the silent figure on the bed. 

“I was her friend,” he said, meaningly. 


CHAPTER XXX. 


A DAZZLING PROPOSAL. 

EECHDALE had never in its history 
been called upon to mourn at the same 
time the loss in two such distinguished 
families as that of the Lawrence’s and 
Lansdowne’s. Possessing- such an un- 
precedented opportunity she meant to 
show that she was equal to the occa- 
sion. 

The Beechdale Magnet and Leyton 
Herald , each, had long articles occupying the front 
page, in which were set forth the many virtues of 
the illustrious dead. At the same time the unto- 
ward fate that had snatched both in the very zenith 
of their social glory, to the dread unknown, was 
deeply deplored. The articles pleased the friends 
and acquaintances of the deceased and the sale of 
the papers suited the editors. 

Thre is in human nature an element of hero- 
worship which almost universally impels us to 
snatch hungrily at gossip concerning earth’s great 
ones, though we ourselves have never so much as 
touched the hem of their garments. 

If flowers are symbols of affection, Gertrude 
Lawrence had been deeply loved; yet Margaret 
questioned if any real mourners besid'e herself were 
there that day, except the grey-haired, sorrowing 



A MODERN PATRICIAN 


275 


parents and a tall, sad-faced stranger, who laid 
upon the bier a magnificent bunch of crimson roses. 
The world’s conclusion, ohwever, would be radi- 
cally different. It looked at Aubrey Lawrence’s 
deep mourning band and black cuff-buttons; little 
Dorothy’s black velvet cloak and nodding raven 
plumes and made its own deductions therefrom. 

A few days later occurred the funeral of the 
daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Frederick William Lans- 
downe. The pomp and ceremony of the second 
funeral solemnities were in no wise inferior to those 
of the first, but after this latter event Beechdale felt 
that she had fulfilled her duty and should be al- 
lowed to settle down to her normal state. 

Margaret, too, attempted to take up once more 
life’s interrupted thread. She tried to quiet her 
perturbed mind that she might decide a question 
that nearly two weeks before had been asked of her 
and which, though claiming immediate considera- 
tion, had been again and again pushed aside. 

Douglass had made an engagement to accom- 
pany her to Miss Wilby’s to express formally their 
appreciation of their young friend’s hospitality. The 
evening was at hand, and she knew that in a few 
hours she would be once more alone with him. 
Her heart beat more quickly at the thought. 

The afternoon was a dreary one outside, and 
Margaret turned her eyes from the tall, leafless 
trees to the bright flames of the gas logs in the li- 
brary grate. Mrs. Lansdowne, Yzabel and Kath- 


276 


A DAZZLING PROPOSAL 


eryn had! gone to their relatives and' Elinoir, for 
perhaps the first time in her life, had been in- 
veigled into hearing M'aud recite her French lesson. 

The girl’s slow, spasmodic utterances came to 
her from the room beyond. She heard Elinoir’s 
impatient correction, followed by Maud’s pathetic 
appeal : 

“O, Elinoir, what does it mean? Can’t you tell 
me that? Mademoiselle said we must know it in 
English. You ought to know, Elinoir, when you’re 
in one of Monsieur Bereil’s French classes.” 

The controversy went ont, and Margaret closed 
the door softly that she might “hear” herself think. 

Dozens of times since that evening, two weeks 
ago, she had gone over in her mind every detail 
of that scene in the conservatory. Each time there 
came with the recalling of it a strange feeling of 
pain, mingled with an only vaguely-defined joy. 
She attempted to trace out the spring of this dis- 
comfort. She told herself that perhaps her heart 
had been severely startled that night by the sup- 
pressed, though terribly evident power of his love. 
She could hear again as plainly as she heard them 
that night his words — “Margaret, I have tried. I 
have fought against it again and again, but tonight 
I cast all warning aside! Margaret, Margaret, I 
love you! What have you to answer?” 

She remembered he had not even touched her. 
She admired him for that act of gallantry, and re- 
spect. Standing there, how tall and handsome he 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


277 


had looked! And she? How had she felt? Deliri- 
ous with joy? Triumphant that she had won a love, 
unsought? She could not say. She was an enigma 
to herself. 

Perhaps if she had been a woman not so en- 
thralled by ideals, but one willing to accept situa- 
tions as they seemed and content not to delve be- 
neath the surface, she might have answered him 
that night. Instead she had replied: 

“You have asked me a great question tonight. 
The answer is the making or marring of life’s des- 
tiny. I must think.” 

So long as she had been meeting him day after 
day, listening to his brilliant conversation, she had 
felt a certain exhileration in his companionship. 
Perhaps, she considered, if he had not declared his 
love for her so suddenly, passionately, it would 
have been different. The deepest recesses of her 
soul had been touched. She stood appalled before 
the unsuspected revelation. Reason had reared its 
majestic head and Love — if it were there — had sunk 
affrighted. But she was too wise a woman to bid 
Reason depart. She felt that the path she chose 
must be one where Love and Reason led the way. 

A union with Douglass would take her from the 
social sphere to which she had been born, a sphere 
in which true American manhood and womanhood 
was the embodiment of domestic virtues and loft- 
iest aspirations, to place her in a world of false- 
hoods, of vanity, of licensed sensuality. Would she 


278 


A DAZZLING PROPOSAL 


dare to enter it? She thought of Gertrude Law- 
rence and shuddered. Yet she was not not in- 
fluenced by ascetic preferences. She did not feel 
the necessity of retiring from the world in order to 
achieve the deepest cravings of her heart. She 
would willingly walk where Destiny placed her, but 
when she chose one to walk with her, to whom she 
must swear lasting allegiance, such a one must be 
her companion in the truest, largest sense. The 
two would be one flesh, not galley-slaves chained 
together. What if — she groaned aloud at the hor- 
ror of the bare possibility of such a thing — what iT, 
after marriage, after she had given herself irrevo- 
cably into his keeping, she should find' that her 
husband was not worthy of her love — of any wo- 
man's love? She started' as one would finding one's 
self on the very edge of a precipice. 

“I will tell him tonight that he must wait a little 
longer. I cannot answer yet." So once again she 
pushed the issue from her. 

The storm that had threatened in the afternoon 
passed over, and when, after making their call, 
Douglass and Margaret started home, the moon 
was riding high and brilliant in the heavens. 

Beechdale was beautiful in the sunlight. She was 
a veritable home for the gods bathed in the white 
radiance of the moon. Douglass and Margaret felt 
the influence of the scene as they walked slowly 
down the broad avenue. 

They talked of trivial things at first; it so often 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


f79 

happens thus when there is the consciousness that 
weightier matters stand like giant forms waiting to 
be heard. After a little topics seemed to fail. A 
silence came between them, and through its trans- 
parent medium the thoughts of each were revealed. 

“How brilliant the moonlight is tonight/' she 
said at last, lifting her face toward the great silver 
orb. 

“Surpassingly so,” he returned. Then his eyes 
sought the sweet, upturned face. To him fairer 
than the goddess of the night was the queen of his 
heart and life. A sudden impulse moved her and 
she turned to meet his ardent gaze. “Mr. Doug- 
lass, you remember that nearly two weeks ago you 
asked me a question? I told you I was utterly un- 
able then to answer it.” There was a little tremble 
in her voice at the last. 

“I do remember," he replied, earnestly. 

“You said then you would wait until I was quite 
ready. You have never by word or act given me to 
understand that you were impatient at my delay. 
I want to thank you for it.” He made a little de- 
precatory gesture. 

“Do you understand 1 , Mr. Douglass, that the 
question you asked of me cannot be lightly or 
quickly answered; that it involves the endless woe 
or happiness of two human lives; that a mistake 
once committed can never be obliterated'. O, do 
not — do not think I am trifling with you — that I 


28 o 


A DAZZLING PROPOSAL 


am taking pleasure in holding back that for which 
you have asked.” 

“I have not thought so for a moment,” he broke 
in, eagerly. “I would not, had you kept me wait- 
ing twice as long.” 

“Then,” she said with a little falter in her voice, 
“I hope you will attribute to my request tonight 
none but noble motives. I am still unable to give 
you your answer. Will you — wait — a little 
longer?” 

He nodded assent, but she saw an expression of 
keen disappointment pass over his face, and it hurt 
her. She wrung her hands together in the fervor 
of her earnestness. “O,” she cried, “do you under- 
stand what it means to me? Do you?” 

“I think I am beginning,” he answered. “I feel 
as though I ought to stand with uncovered head 
when in your presence, yet I have the presumption 
— the rashness — the audacity — anything you may 
phrase it — to ask you to be my wife!” 

“Hush! you must not abuse yourself so. If a 
man has a right to ask a woman to be his wife, then 
jin that act he has shown her the highest honor 
which she can ever receive. Whatever her answer 
may be, if she is a true woman, she will feel that.” 
They had reached her aunt’s house and she paused 
and looked into his face. “Will you forgive me 
for making you wait a little longer,” she pleaded. 

“Forgive you!” he cried, passionately. “I would 
forgive you anything — even if you sent me to per- 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


281 


dition. But give me hope, only a crumb. It is all 
I ask. It is not much for a starving man.” 

“I could not send you to perdition/’ she said 
firmly. 

“No woman, good or bad, could do that. One 
sends one’s self there.” 

“You are right — you always are,” he replied. A 
starving man is not a very reasonable creature, you 
know. But will you give me a little hope to live on 
between now andi then? Even if you should never 
give anything but that one crumb — if you should let 
me starve afterward, I will have the remembrance 
of those days of comfort.” 

Pity is akin to love. Douglass was a good diplo- 
mat whether consciously or unconsciously. Mar- 
garet felt a sudden longing to put her hands in the 
strong, tender ones of her lover and say: 

“I will strive no longer! This — this is your an- 
swer.” But instead she replied, simply, “Yes, you 
may hope.” 

In silence they ascended the steps. Some feel- 
ing of awe made him refuse her invitation to enter. 
Their hands met and a low “good-night” was 
spoken. 

The sound of the closing door struck against 
Douglass’ heart like the drawing of prison bars, 
shutting out for ever a human soul from life and 
liberty. He passed quickly down the walk and out 
upon the street. Once he lifted his head upward 
tow r ard the moonlight, but his face was not that of 


28 2 


A DAZZLING PROPOSAL 


a starving man to whom some crumbs had just 
been cast; rather, that of a Tantulus, who, in sight 
of plenty, was being tortured by terrible need. 


CHAPTER XXXI, 


COUNSEL. 

HE next afternoon, Phillip recceived a 
note from Margaret, and with an appre- 
hension of coming evil he tore open 
the envelope to read the brief lines. 
“Dear Phillip: 

“Will it be convenient for you to 
come over some evening this week, 
say Friday? Aunt Frances has tickets 
for the Brandt Concerts. Being in 
mourning none of the family can use them. If you 
would care to go I should enjoy it, I know. I want 
to have a dear, old-fashioned talk with you, and s 
have something very , very important to say. 

With love, 
“MARGARET.” 

It seemed as if all the vital currents in his body 
stopped; as if the very universe itself for an instant 
stood still. He grasped the table by which he was 
standing for support. “What a good surgeon I 
would make,” he thought bitterly. “I knew this 
would come and I dreamed that I could meet it like 
a man.” 

He did not question the nature of the revelation 
to which Margaret had alluded in her letter. That 




284 


COUNSEL 


it was concerning Douglass and herself he felt as 
positive as if she had already confided in him. With 
this absolute assurance, as soon as he was able to 
think and plan, he decided upon a line of action that 
he fell incumbent upon him to carry out at once. 

Ever since Forsythe’s remark when Phillip had 
asked him concerning Douglass’ character he had 
felt an anxiety to learn what if anything of import- 
ance had been meant bv the young physician’s half- 
laughing advice to consult the Major. 

There should be no further hesitancy about the 
matter, he determined. His Uncle Wayland had 
asked him to keep a watch-care over his cousin. 
Vv ould he be true to that charge if he should, with- 
out a word of warning allow her, pure and tender 
as the flower of her own fragrant meadows, tO' be 
plucked by a hand black with sin? Margaret was 
lost to him — the thought almost drove him mad 
and in the first, desperate moments he blamed him- 
self for being a laggard in love. Why had he not, 
during those long, sweet days in the past given her 
a glimpse of his throbbing heart — Love begets love; 
perhaps — ! Dear God! what was he saying? What 
right had he, poor, with no prospects in life except 
those existing in unsubstantial dlay-dreams, to bind 
another life to his? Thank heaven! he was still sane. 
He could answer from his torn heart — no right, no 
moral right whatever. What had she known of the 
great, wide world existing beyond her simple coun- 
try home — a world needing perhaps just such sw r eet 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


285 

uncompromising women as she to purge it? He w^as 
glad she had seen this other world. She had 
strength of character and the wisdom to choose for 
the best. Her choice would never be one made with- 
out deep reflection. He knew her well enough to 
feel sure of that. With such thoughts he went out 
of his room, into the street and toward the Blue 
Blood Club. 

Major Dearborne was a prominent member of 
the Blue Blood Club. He had invited Phillip sever- 
al times to drop in to see him, but Phillip had had 
very little time and! even less inclination, up to the 
the present, to take advantage of the numerous 
courtesies extended him. 

Phillip found the Major genial and happy among 
a few friends. He grasped the new comer's hand 
and gave it a hearty squeeze. The Major was in one 
of his reminiscent moods, and he hailedl Phillip as a 
new and for that reason, perhaps, more interested 
listener. “Glad to see you, my boy, extremely glad. 
My wife was saying the other day she felt rather pi- 
qued because you did not show a desire to accept 
any of her numerous invitations. 

“T appreciate the kindness, Major Dearborne, but 
I have so little time for social engagements, how- 
ever much I might enjoy them. I visit very few with 
the exception of my cousin, Miss Stewart." 

“A very handlsome girl, that Miss Stewart! Mag- 
nificent form, remarkable eyes! Let's see, is the re- 


286 


COUNSEL 


lationship on the Lansdowne side? Is she a relative 
of William Lansdowne’s?” 

“No, a niece of Mrs. Frances Lansdowne, her 
mother and Mrs. Lansdowne were sisters.” 

“Ah, I see! Very fine family by the way — the 
Lansdowne’s brought over their coat of arms with 
them this time, I hear. (Grisly, two Martinis and 
a bottle of claret.) Yes, indeed, very fine family, 
very fine. Still, I always say I’m prouder to be an 
American — better than all the titles in Christendom. 
That’s so! 'Major’ sounds well enough for me. 
That’s so!” The Major gave his knee a resounding 
blow. “I say, Vail, did- you ever — (makes a fellow 
smack his lips doesn’t it? Only place in Leyton 
to get a cocktail!) I say did you ever know I en- 
tered the army as a second lieutenant and was a 
Major in two weeks. The battle of Shiloh did it. I 
tell you, that was a sight worth seeing, Vail. (Not 
another glass? Ha! ha! ha! Taste not cultivated? 
Another cocktail, Grisly.) As I was saying, it was 
at the battle of Shiloh. Inside of three minutes a 
dozen officers were taking their last sleep. I was 
Major before I knew it; Lord, before I knew it, ac- 
tually. I look upon myself as a self-made man, ha! 
ha! ha! with apologies to Shiloh; apologies to Shi- 
loh, ha! ha! ha! Ij come of a fighting family, sir.” 
The Major’s cheeks became inflated at the thought. 
“You see my grandfather — no, no, my greatgrand- 
father came over with Lord — Lord — Gad! I know 
his name as well as my own! Lord — Lord — ” 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


287 


but the Major’s cocktails were making the Major 
somewhat hazy in respect to the movements of his 
ancestors. Phillip noted the fact. He was fearful 
that the purpose for which he had come would be 
marked with failure. He concluded to force an 
issue. 

“Beechdale boasts quite a number of old families 
does she not?” he asked. 

“Quite sir, quite.” 

“I have met a Mr. Douglass. The Douglasses 
stand very high, do they not?” 

“Yes, an old Scotch family of King James time. 
Malcolm’s father was a fine man. I remember him 
well. Loved sports. Why he had the finest lot of 
dogs and horses anywhere around. Loved hunt- 
ing — died m the saddle, in fact. Found dead in his 
own woods, dead as a door nail and his horse by his 
side. He was a fine man — had scores of friends.” 

“His son seems to be the more quiet sort I 
thought,” remarked Phillip, trying to lead up to his 
subject. “I have met him several times with my 
cousin.” 

“Ah, that reminds me,” replied the Major with a 
sly wink; “my wife said to me the other day that he 
seemed to be paying very particular attention to 
Miss Stewart. He’s rather a cynic, you know. Girls 
don’t just understand him. Would give their heads 
though to trap him! He’s a good catch for any 
girl.” 

“Well, you see Major Dearborne,” begun Phillip 


288 


COUNSEL 


looking intently at the tips of the Major’s patent 
leathers, “you see Miss Stewart is rather different 
from most girls. Blue-blood, old family, wealth, do 
not count much with her when she makes her esti- 
mates. It is the man himself — what he is, not what 
he possesses. Is Douglass’ character above re- 
proach? Is there any stain on that?” 

The Major smiled benignly and filled another 
glass before answering. 

“I wish you would change your mind and join 
me in another glass, Vail. This is excellent stuff. 
Can’t beat it anywhere. No more? Very well. You 
are alluding to Malcolm’s past? Well, aside from 
a little a — a — 'romance’ shall we call it? We all have 
them — he can present a pretty clean title — clean as 
most of us.” 

“Very likely.” The Major failed utterly in de- 
tecting the irony of the remark. “The 'romance’ 
I suppose that of many aristocrats?” 

The Major gave a little interpretive shrug of his 
shouldiers. “Nothing beyond pardon, my dear fel- 
low, nothing beyond pardon, I assure you. A slight 
entanglement — very trifling matter, very. You’ll be 
there yourself, ha! ha! ha!” 

Fire leaped to* Phillip’s eyes, but he knew an ex- 
hibition of anger would ruin all. The Major un- 
conscious of the proximity of a volcano proceeded. 

“The woman is very respectable — a distant rela- 
tive I am told of the Van Raensallers. In fact” — he 
leaned toward Phillip in a most confidential man- 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


289 


ner,” I advised him myself to marry her. She’s an 
educated woman — Douglass wouldn’t have any 
other though — and all she needs is lifting up a lit- 
tle.” The Major moved nearer and lowered his voice 
“I did it myself! Yes, sir, I did it myself!” The Ma- 
jor set his mouth and extended his lower jaw. He 
had the air of a man who had just delivered himself 
of a personal en'conium. Phillip looked mystified. 

‘‘Mrs. Major, I mean. You’d never have known 
it, would you? She is a wonderful woman, wonder- 
ful, I said when I first saw Mrs. Major, ‘She will 
bear lifting up’ — and I did it. Douglass may have 
a little trouble throwing the woman off. It may 
cost him a neat little sum. She’s pretty high 
strung. She’ll be cut up no doubt, but he’ll be able 
to settle all right after the first shock has subsided. 
Don’t give yourself any uneasiness about that.” 

It was very evident to Phillip that this blue-blood 
scion of a blue-bloodi race had not the faintest idea 
that anything beyond Douglass’ ability to “settle” 
would hinder a union between the latter and Mar- 
garet should Douglass have any desires in that di- 
rection^ 

The contempt for the shrive lied -sou led, morally 
corrupt specimen of humanity before him was visi- 
ble on Phillip’s face. It distorted every feature. 
Had they been alone — out of hearing of the loung- 
ers about the halls, he would have given the Major 
to understand more forcibly than politely, perhaps, 
that there were men, his word to the contrary, who 


290 


COUNSEL 


had lived and would live quite free of entangle- 
ments; that there were women notwithstanding the 
Major’s ignorance of the fact, who would sooner 
die — starving — in the street, than knowingly mate 
themselves to shameless licentiates. His whole 
soul clamored for utterance, to give vent to the aw- 
ful upheaval within himself. 

He arose and stood resting one hand against a 
magnificent onyx pedestal. The Major, looking at 
him was struck with the handsome appearance of 
his guest. He had noted it before, he was doubly 
impressed with the fact now. 

“He will bear watching. Mrs. Major is young 
and facinating. I thought it would! be a good thing 
to have a little confidental talk. Well enough to get 
acquainted with your friends and your foes,” 
thought the Major. 

He inwardly congratulated himself upon his keen 
foresight. The smile of congratulation broadened 
his mouth and he started when Phillip’s voice fell 
on his dulled ear. 

“It is late, Major Dearborne. I must be of?. Be- 
fore I go, however, Ii would like to say in honor to 
Miss Stewart that I think you do not know her in 
the least, if you imagine that there could be any ad- 
justment of af?airs that would! allow her to enter in- 
to a contract that was not founded on honor and 
chastity.” 

The Major, with a stupefied expression of won- 
der on his face gazed at Phillip, tall and straight be- 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


291 


side him. He knew from the tremble in Phillip’s 
voice that something was wrong and that what he 
had said was the cause. He pulled himself together 
with a supreme effort. 

“My dear fellow,” he exclaimed, “I really meant 
nothing against Miss Stewart. The thing is done 
every day, true as Heaven, every day. Plenty of 
cases. I could name them, right in Beechdale.” The 
Major’s voice was getting alarmingly near a roar. 

“I am not taking you to task for your senti- 
ments,” returned Phillip. “I felt it my duty to as- 
sure you though, that your classification in regard 
to women was a little in error — that is all.” 

The Major was slightly mollified. “Won’t you 
let me show you through the club-house, Vail? 
We’re quite proud of the place. Some magnificent 
pieces of art back yonder. I’d like to introduce you 
to a few of my friends. Why, if there aren’t For- 
sythe and Chatterton!” 

“I really can’t, Major Dearborne, it is very kind, 
but I must be off. I have already staid longer than 
I anticipated. I’ll have to beg you to excuse me 
this time.” 

“Well, then, if I can’t persuade you. But come 
again, Vail — any day,” returned the Major. “And 
Vail” — the Major lowered his voice — -“don’t for the 
world speak of this little bit of gossip in connection 
with my name. I am a very good friend of Doug- 
lass.” 


292 


COUNSEL 


‘‘Wouldn't think of it. Good-bye." The Major 
looked relieved, and the two parted. 

Then the man with the pedigree sat down once 
more in his chair. 

“Dog it all!" he ejaculated. “I’ve made a darned 
fool of myself, that’s what I have. Mrs. Major’s 
has told me a hundred times I talk too much when 
I take cocktails and claret — and I have. He’s a 
queer duck though; one of your drivelling, pious 
chaps — -the most dangerous kind. He’ll bear being 
watched. Mrs. Major is a fascinating woman!’’ 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


UNRAVELLED. 

HE next morning Margaret received 
from Phillip a note of acceptance to 
her invitation; Friday evening she sat 
waiting for him in the library, in com- 
pany with her aunt and cousins and 
Mrs. Frederick William Lansdowne. 
She looked the very spirit of winter in 
her shimmering grey gown with its fur- 
ry garniture and toque to match; at 
least so Phillip thought as he stepped in among the 
little company. 

‘‘Clarissa, allow me to introduce to you Mr. Vail, 
Margaret’s cousin; M!r. Vail, my sister-in-law, Mrs. 
Frederick William Lansdowne.” There was re- 
flected in Mrs. Frances Lansdowne’s voice the com- 
mendable pride she felt in announcing the connec- 
tion. 

Phillip bowed to a middle-aged woman seated in 
a large, easy chair beside Katheryn. This then, 
was the woman who helped sway the scepter over 
Beechdale’s Four Hundred. He looked at her cu- 
riously. There was nothing remarkable, at least in 
respect to her personal appearance, that would in- 
dicate her exalted station. She was of medium 
height with deep-set grey eyes and heavy under- 



294 


UNRAVELLED 


jaw. Naturally pale, perhaps, she appeared exces- 
sively so in her deep mourning robes. 

“I am so glad you could take Margaret to the 
concert,” remarked her aunt; then in a little lower 
voice — “Being in mourning, of course none of us 
could appear at a public affair.” There was a slight 
droop at the corners of her mouth. 

“So I understood.” Then he turned to Marga- 
ret — “Have we time to spare or> should we be go- 

in £ ? ” lil 

“We need be in no haste, Phillip. We have time 
to visit a little.” 

“Yes, do stay,” pleaded Katheryn. “We have 
not seen you for such an age. We were beginning 
to think you were offended at something we had 
done.” 

“It takes a great deal to offend me and I am sure 
I have received only kindness from all of you,” he 
answered. 

“You are studying law, are you not?” asked Mrs. 
Frederick William Lansdowne from the depths of 
her crushed crepe collar. 

“Medicine, Aunt Clarissa,” corrected Yzabel. 
“Mr. Vail will soon be a full-fledged M. D. I do 
hope you will decide to practise here. I simply 
adore to count professional men among my ac- 
quaintances. I always said I would marry a profes- 
sional man, didn’t I, mamma, long before I had any 
idea of marrying Fletcher, you know.” 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


295 


“Yes, it was queer. You remember, Clarissa, 
how the diear child used to insist upon it?” 

Mirs. Frederick William Lansdowne nodded as- 
sentingly, then turned to Phillip: 

“You have met Mr. Chatterton, Judge Chatter- 
ton’s eldest son? A rising young lawyer of Ley- 
ton.” 

“I had the opportunity soon after my arrival,” 
answered Phillip, a picture of the evening with the 
judge’s promising son coming up vividly before 

him. 

“The Chattertons are quite an old family of 
Beechdale,” continued Mrs. Lansdowne by way of 
a last convincing argument as to Mr. Chatterton’s 
superiority, and fearful perhaps, that Phillip might 
not have been apprised of the fact. 

Phillip felt it incumbent upon him to acknowl- 
edge in some way this last bit of information; but, 
as he was unable to evince even a creditable amount 
of enthusiasm at the intelligence heard some dozen 
times before, he only replied rather laconically: 
“So I have heard.” Then Margaret suggested that 
it was time to go. 

It was a brilliant company that had assembled 
at Lennox Opera House. The Brandt Concerts 
were considered among the chief society affairs of 
the winter. 

Phillip was a lover of music as well as Margaret, 
and though each heart was conscious of something 
of far greater moment than the mere enjoyment of 


296 


UNRAVELLED 


a musical programme, nevertheless the exquisite 
orchestral numbers absorbed at times their undivi- 
ded attention. 

Beethoven's Ninth Symphony occupied the prin- 
cipal part on the programme. Neither Phillip nor 
Margaret had a score to follow; even if they had 
been so provided, they could not have followed it, 
perhaps, any more intelligently, than some around 
them who were supplied with these tokens of su- 
perior artistic appreciation. Every strain, however, 
as it floated across, the hall was drunk in eagerly by 
the two entranced! listeners. As the last notes of 
the delirious whirl of the Sherzo dropped from the 
magic strings, Margaret is a perfect ecstasy of 
passionate delight said to Phillip in the short in- 
termission that followed: “It seems as though I 
could breathe every fragrance of the meadows, Phil- 
lip; hear the laughter of our streams, could feel the 
mad impulse of the new-born spring as she will 
soon lap over our hills and valleys.” Then she 
checked her ardent words and looked, blushing, in 
Phillip’s face. 

“You think I am trying to be poetical?” she 
asked. He shook his head. 

“The music seemed to be speaking somehow to 
me. It was only a fancy.” 

“It was not fancy,” he said gravely. “Your soul 
leaps to the music of many sounds that others can 
never hear.” 

“Phillip, * what a flatterer you are. Should not 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


297 


•each of us be in harmony with our surroundings. 
These are the sounds of my country home. Some 
can hear and see what I cannot.” 

“They may be the poorer for it,” he answered; 
"“and I cannot allow even my cousin to call me a 
flatterer.” 

Later during the intermission Phillip asked, 
^‘Shall we take a promenade in the foyer with the 
rest?” But Margaret preferred a tete-a-tete with 
him, sitting in their chairs. Several of the Beech- 
dalians, however, came over on their way to the 
foyer to pass the compliments of the evening. 

Major Dearborne and his wife were there and 
nodded smilingly to Margaret and Phillip when 
they spied them from their box. The Major’s wife 
was surroundled by a little coterie of admirers. As 
the Major stood protectingly near to his wife, Mrs. 
Major was reduced to the necessity of casting from 
behind her fairy shield — an imported fan, — danger- 
ous darts from her chameleon eyes. Mrs. Folger 
and ‘Jack’ walked slowly up the aisle from their 
seats in the premium row. M ! r. Nelson Boskin 
came after as the proud escort of Miss Phoebe 
Chatterton and later Fletcher, trailing along rather 
disconsolately with his mother. Indeed, everybody 
who was anybody — though the act would bring 
them to the verge of poverty for the next six 
months, went to the Brandt Concerts during the 
winter season. 

Toward the end of the intermission Margaret 


298 


UNRAVELLED 


saw Mrs. Pierson and some friends enter a box 
next to that of Major Dearborne. She felt a sud- 
den thrill rise in her breast as they did so. Douglass 
was not with them, but the mere presence of his 
sister brought once more, to the foreground the 
grave subject that had for the time receded to the 
dim boundary line of consciousness. 

Phillip, too, noticed the new comers, but he had 
determined not in any way to precipitate the one 
topic which up to the present moment had been 
tacitly avoided by both. Phillip, however, had no 
need for anxiety. Margaret felt a hesitancy in re- 
vealing her secret even to Phillip in the brilliancy of 
a thousand lectric lights. '‘When we are going 
home/' she determined to herself. "We will enjoy 
the hour that we have as it is.” And, indeed, so 
thoroughly did both become identified with the 
music and the gay beauty of the scene that they 
hardly realized it was at an end until they stepped 
from the car and began to walk down the familiar 
avenue. Both felt, then, instinctively that they had 
passed into another scene of life’s appointed acts. 

A silence fell between them; a silence which de- 
clared the proximity of another link in the chain of 
destiny. Margaret broke it. "Shall we walk a little 
way down the avenue? I have something to say to 
you Phillip, tonight; perhaps it can be better said 
here and now than at another place or time.” He 
smiled into her face. The wild! throbbing in his 
breast made it dangerous for him to speak. 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


299 


She interpreted the smile as he had meant she 
should. She guessed that he suspected what her 
secret was, and met it with an answering look of 
confidence. Her hand slipped softly down his arm 
and rested quietly within his own broad palm. 

“Two weeks ago,” she began, — “that night at 
Miss Wilby’s — Mr. Douglass told me something 
which surprised me very much, Phillip. If I were 
saying this to one — to one I mean who did not 
know me — he might say, perhaps, it is impossible 
for a woman ever to misinterpret a man's atten- 
tions to herself — but I am sure you will not so 
judge my words.” She pausedl a second but she 
read that upon his face which must have satisfied, 
for she went on. “It never occurred to me that 
Mr. Douglass thought of me other than as a diver- 
ion — for a society man you know, has seldom the 
unique experience of conversing with a real, live 
country girl.” The little witticism served its pur- 
pose — they both laughed. A common feeling 
brought them somehow nearer to each other. 

“You know,” she continued, but a little more 
rapidly now as if anxious to get it all told, “Mr. 
Douglass andl I have been together quite a little 
Phillip. I have enjoyed his company. He was 
never silly or sentimental in his conversation. With 
him one needed to be a little more than an adept at 
social repartee.” 

She paused again. Somehow what she had in- 
tended to tell in a few words seemed to be length- 


300 


UNRAVELLED 


ening out indefinitely. Phillip, too, was so quiet — 
the very air seemed to have a strange hush about it. 
Her first nervousness was coming once more upon 
her. She must get it over. 

“He — he — said he loved me, Phillip,” she flung 
out with an abruptness borne of extremity. “He is 
waiting for my answer.” 

He knew she expected him to speak. 

“And you love him?” he asked. “It is a long 
time to keep a man waiting — two weeks.” 

“O, Phillip, it is that which worries me. If I 
would do as so many do — let reason have no part 
in the decision — I might, perhaps, have answered 
long ago. But the awful responsibility of taking 
a step which can never, never, be retraced, seems 
somehow to keep a barrier against my heart. Think 
how great a chasm there is between our social 
spheres. Do you believe it can be successfully 
bridged?” 

“Only in one way — by perfect love,” he answered 
solemnly. “By a love that rests either side the 
chasm on truth and purity.” 

She was looking with wide, earnest eyes into his 
face. How could he wound her! Yet to wound 
was to save and he could not flinch. Still he hesi- 
tated. 

“You know, Phillip, there is that which I believe 
can never be spanned — a wrong life. Before all 
things I would know whether the man to whom I 
give my heart is free from moral stain. It is this 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


301 


which has made me speak to you tonight. I felt 
that you could perhaps assure me of this. You 
have opportunities for ascertaining that I have not. 
The few I have I am sorry to say I could not rely 
upon. Under other circumstances, Phillip, my 
father must have been the first custodian of my se- 
cret. Can you ‘help me?” 

He could hesitate no longer. "‘Pearl,” he called 
her by the old, sweet name, “you have asked some- 
thing which is hard for me to answer; believe me, 
very hard: First, because I fear it will hurt you far 
more than you yourself are aware of; also because 
I dislike to speak ill of any man.” He felt her hand 
tremble in hits. He dared not look into her face. 

“I have heard from two sources,” he continued, 
“and the last I feel to be perfectly reliable, that Mr. 
Douglass, while a man of superior endowments in- 
tellectually and a person of exceptionally gracious 
and winning manners is corrupt at heart. He is 
what you have, perhaps, feared he might be — a man 
utterly careless of his moral life. I believe he has 
many n'oble instincts which had they been allowed 
to develop, had they been reinforced by his own in- 
tellectual powers, would have made him the man 
he was meant to be. I have no doubt that, since 
meeting you, he has felt the longing for a higher 
life, has been anxious, indeed, to cast off the old 
fetters. But Malcolm Douglass has wronged one 
woman — no matter what she is — as a man he has 
wronged her, now he seeks, through the medium of 


302 


UNRAVELLED 


a pure relation, to wrong another. God forbid that 
you should be that one!” 

He had! risen above any personal pain. He was 
battling now for the life of one whom he would die 
to save. He spoke with an energy that shook his 
own soul as by a power without itself. He could 
dare now to look at her. The light of the moon 
was full in her face. The muscles of her mouth 
and chin set like flint and the pallor as of death was 
on her face. Her steps suddenly flagged as if smit- 
ten with unutterable weariness. A little gust of 
wind passed by. She shivered. 

“Shall we turn back now?” he asked, trying to 
make his tones sound natural and failing misera- 
bly. “It seems a little cold. The wind has risen, I 
think.” 

He was trying to make it easy for her — to make 
her feel that he really did not know how poignantly 
she was suffering. 

“It is cold,” she answered. “Yes, the wind has 
risen. See, it is moving even the branches of that 
oak.” 

They had been walking slowly and were now but 
a little beyond her aunt’s house. There was still a 
bright light in the library. She dreaded being 
obliged to go in and talk, yet even in her pain she 
did not forget the comforts of others. 

“You will come in, Phillip, and get warm, will 
you not?” 

“Not tonight, Pearl. I thank you ever so much 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


303 


for the enjoyment of the music — and your company 
this evening,” he answered kindly. 

“I am gladl you did Phillip and” — she straight- 
ened up a little as if trying to gather strength — “I 
am very, very, thankful for what — you have told — 
me tonight. It has — shocked me a little — but I will 
get over that.” 

"And 1 believe me, my dear little cousin,” he took 
her hand and held it in his own, "I am very sorry 
that the truth in this case was so unpleasant. Of 
course, you will do as you think best, Pearl, but it 
would seem perhaps only fair that Mr. Douglass 
should know of what he is accused. Though far 
short in so many respects to the claims of true man- 
hood, I believe you might make him feel the just- 
ness of your decision.” 

"I will be just,” she answered. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 


REJECTED. 

OYE — strange, mystic word! How 
countless its interpretations! Love — 
that beholds with the eye of spirit, not 
with the eye of flesh. Love — that 
eludes the touch of defilement and 
dwells with the noble and sincere. 
Love — that springs from that which is 
eternal and! reaches to that within the 
veil! 

Margaret going to her room after leaving Phillip 
cried out in the first agony of her disillusionment — 
“it cannot, it cannot, be love!” Yet what she had 
been experiencing these last few weeks, and per- 
haps long before Douglass had spoken to her, was 
love, though it had existed between her pure 
soul and an ideal of her own creation. When .the 
veil was torn from the image to which she had been 
clinging, when that which had been concealed be- 
hind it stood revealed in all its deformity; she 
shrank in horror at the sight. The agony came not 
because of separation from this idol — there never 
could have been a union; — but because of the rude 
awakening to the fact that the personality she loved 
existed but in her own fancy. 

In spite of the agony of heart, the torture and 



A MODERN PA T RICIAN 


^05 

perplexing of mind she did not hesitate an instant 
as to her future action. 

Two lines of duty were clear to her — to tell 
Douglass of her decision without delay and to tear 
from her heart that which now if persisted in, could 
be no other than passion — passion which she felt to 
be abhorred by her own soul. She wrote a note 
asking him to call the next evening, finding they 
could be safe from disturbances, at the time. 

When Margaret told her aunt that she would 
not be able to accept, with them, an invitation to the 
Chattertons, the arrangement was quite satisfactory 
to Mrs. Lansdowne. She was not a woman to hold 
on stubbornly to a forlorn hope. She was too prac- 
tical for that. Long since, she had given up all ex- 
pectation of a matrimonial alliance between one of 
her daughters and the heir of the Douglass House. 
She had been astounded to the last degree at the 
very marked attentions of Douglass to Margaret; 
she could not understand the cause; but she was 
not the person to spend precious time in trying to 
solve what seemed so hopelessly insoluble. She 
took it for granted that the evidence of her senses 
was to be relied upon and she began to plan ac- 
cordingly. 

She had also been growing more and more sure 
as she watched the two cousins closely, that while 
Margaret's feeling toward Phillip was only that of a 
sister, his for her was of a radically different sort; 
yet she was confident that with the girl once lost 


3°6 


REJECTED 


to him he would, with good planning on their part, 
become enamored of Katheryn or Elinoir. That 
love could be transferred from one object to an- 
other with ease and! alacrity, Mrs. Lansdowne 
never doubted. Her affections were constructed 
after that fashion and she* believed herself to be not 
unlike the rest of the human race. It was then, 
with feelings not simply of resignation to the inevi- 
table, but of certain pleasurable anticipations for 
the future, that Mrs. Lansdowne, with her three 
daughters, stepped out from her home and) left Mar- 
garet behind to receive her invited guest. 

They had been gone only a few minutes when 
Douglass was announced. 

“I came early, ” he said, eagerly, when he had 
taken a seat bv her side. “I could not wait. I 
wanted to know my fate. These two weeks have 
been years to me, if time may be counted by the 
anxiety with which it is filled.' ” He noticed some- 
thing peculiar in the expression of her face which 
made him feel ill at ease. He thought his impetu- 
osity might have annoyed her. “You will forgive 
my abruptness, will you not?” he asked. “It is 
a case of life or death for me. I — I — did not surely 
misinterpret your summons?” 

He was looking at her with all the passionate ar- 
dor of a young lover whose heart is feeling for the 
first time the movings of that sweetly solemn and 
mysterious power of love. He reached out his 
hand. It just touched the filmy lace that fell from. 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


307 


her rounded wrist. She moved back from him the 
very fraction of an inch, but he was conscious of 
the movement. She fastened her dark, brilliant 
eyes upon his face. 

“Mr. Douglass do not say anything more, I beg 
of you. I have nothing to offer you in return but 
words of hopelessness and disappointment. I have 
asked you here tonight that you may receive my ir- 
revocable answer. It is this — I can never be your 
wife! I am sorry if I have given you reason to be- 
lieve it might be otherwise. I am doubly sorry that 
I was not able to give my answer long ago — the 
first night you asked for it.” 

The eager, joyous look died out of his face in- 
stantly. For once the Douglass lip did not shorten 
in disdain. An expression of frozen composure 
rested on his features. “Miss Stewart, if your face 
did not swear that you were not trifling with me 
(after the manner of women) I would not remain 
another moment in your presence. To prove that 
I still believe in and respect you, I ask in the name 
of justice, tell me why you have so spoken? Tell 
me, tell me what is this awful lie that is standing 
between us!” 

He was not prepared for the answer which his 
ill-advised expression called forth. If a moment 
since her self-possession had seemed about to de- 
sert her, it was not so now. She felt the strength 
and power of will returning to her in full measure. 

“You are right,” she replied, looking him in the 


308 


REJECTED 


face, “a lie does stand between us. It is the lie of 
your own double life. You have been living it for 
years, and with it still black in your heart, you 
dared to ask me to share it. Let the woman who 
has helped you to entangle yourself in its meshes 
still share it, as she has shared it in the past!” 

The angry blood surged into his face, then re- 
ceded, leaving it white and set. His eyes had in 
them that which a less courageous nature would 
have feared as suggesting some reckless outburst 
of passion. 

“What right have you to bring such charges?” 
he asked, his voice quivering with suppressed 
wrath. She saw he was attempting to have it out 
on the basis of being unjustly maligned. The fact 
irritated her and lessened him in her estimation. 

“It has come to me very direct. Nothing but 
positive proof to the contrary could satisfy me,” 
she answered. “If I have been hasty in my ac- 
ceptance of the report, it has been because of the 
awful shock and pain of the disclosure. The re- 
coil was proportionate to the blow. Can you, Mr. 
Douglass, disclaim my accusation? Of whatever 
else you are guilty, I believe that you will deal fair- 
ly with me. What is your answer?” 

His eyes, till now, unflinching in their glance, 
fell. Guilt, face to face with truth could not stand 
the test. He arose from her side and moved his 
foot nervously upon the rug at his feet. 

“I cannot understand why you have arraigned 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


309 


me so severely. What you have accused me of is 
held to be no unpardonable sin among the class of 
society in which I move. Perhaps it is not suffi- 
ciently exacting for your moral code. It is cer- 
tainly more merciful. It is not my habit to accuse 
others of a wrong with which I am blamed, but in 
justice to myself, I say now that the fault for which 
you call me to task is one with wdiich many men, 
honored and heads of honored famillies, might be 
charged. 

“When I asked you to become my wife, I in- 
tended to put aside my past life, with all its mis- 
takes — pardon me if I do not call them crimes — and 
live a life worthy of any noble woman. I have act- 
ed as thousands of men are acting every day.” 

“And so you think,” she spoke calmly now, “that 
the past is something which you can lay aside, as 
you might a cast-off garment? You do not believe 
that what you do becomes a part of yourself — is in- 
deed your very self, however you may change your 
environment? Is it nothing that for years you have 
been living a life which you would not have dared 
to publish before the world — a life which your own 
heart even could never have condoned? Did you 
think, because you moved in what the world might 
call — a higher circle socially than that in which I 
moved, that I would feel recompensed for the virtue 
which was lacking, by the position which you of- 
fered?” He lifted his head as if to repudiate the 
charge. “You were mistaken, Mr. Douglass, if 


3io 


REJECTED 


you did,” she; continued). “My parents taught me 
what true nobility is; but it is not in external show 
or in so-called culture. It is a striving to live up to 
a lofty ideal! I have grown to womanhood with 
such principles so rooted and grounded into niv 
very being that now, involuntarily, I shrink from 
vice among those who have no excuse, absolutely 
no excuse for its existence unless — it is this: that 
those who might put upon it the seal of their dis- 
approval do not and will not do so. My attitude 
seems to surprise you. Is it, then, such a novelty 
that a woman refuses to accept for her life compan- 
ion one, who, in spite of wealth and position, would 
if seen in the full light of truth, fall below her 
slightest notice ?” She waited for his reply. 
Great beads of perspiration stood upon his fore- 
head. He sank down in the chair upon which he 
had been resting his hand. 

“I do mean it,” he answered'. He buried his face 
in his hands for a moment. Then he lifted it and 
turned toward her with sudden, pathetic earnest- 
ness, 

“For God's sake, give me credit for this,” he 
pleaded. “I have treated 1 you in no way different 
from any woman to whom I might have offered my 
name. Will you believe me, or have I sunken too 
low in your estimation even for that?” he asked, 
miserably. 

Her heart softened. The first fire of indignation 
toward him was slowly dying out. Pity — that 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


311 

noblest, yet most dangerous, element of a woman's 
nature, was taking possession of her. 

“I believe you," she said, simply. There were 
tears in her eyes, but he did not see them ; perhaps 
it was well for both that he did not. 

“I hope," she continued, with a little quiver in 
her voice, “that you will feel that I am acting just- 
ly; that — that — I could not in respect to mvself 
have acted otherwise." 

He raised his head then and looked at her. “You 
might have acted differently, if you had consulted 
your feelings instead of your judgment? Forgive 
me," he said, humbly, “for asking. You cannot 
know what it would mean to me in the great bar- 
ren stretch of life to know that a noble woman had 
loved me. I will not take undue advantage of 
your answer," he added, with sad earnestness. “I 
am a gentleman in act, if not in heart. Tell me, 
just this once — Do you love me?" 

He waited and she sat quite still. The hopeless 
droop of the strong, young figure, the bent head, 
the pathetic draw of the mouth seemed to indicate 
to him a conflict in her breast. But presently she 
raised her eyes, so grave, so truthful — how could 
he doubt them ! — and answered calmly, without 
faltering: 

“No, I do not love you!" 

“Might you have loved me if it had all been oth- 
erwise? 


312 


REJECTED 


“If this — this lie, had not been between us? Can 
you grant that one grain of comfort to me?” 

“If it would give you comfort . I feared it would 
make you more miserable.” 

“Nothing could do that now,” he said, wearily. 

“I could have loved you — had you been what I 
dreamed you were. But it was only a dream. You 
understand ?” 

“I understand,' ” he answered. Then suddenlv he 
noticed how worn she looked. 

“Forgive me, for so prolonging this strain. I 
will not detain your longer.” He turned and 
walked into the hall. She followed. 

“It was chilly when I came in. I’ll button my 
overcoat, I think.” Then he took his hat. 

“Good-bye,” she said, and stretched one cold 
little hand toward him. He clasped it hungrily — 
greedily. 

“Thank you,” he said, softly, “the dream and the 
hand clasp may save me from perdition, if anything 
will. They cannot be taken away, can they?” 

She forced open her dry lips. “No, they cannot 
be taken away.” 

Then the door closed. 


CHAPTER. XXXIV. 


SURPRISE. 

HE ne/xt morning, when Mrs. Lans- 
downe entered the library before 
breakfast, to her surprise she did not 
find Margaret. As long as her niece 
had been a guest in her home she had 
never failed to be downstairs almost 
an hour before the rest of the family. 

Mrs. Lansdowne was disappointed, 
even irritated, at Margaret’s absence. 
She had made a special effort to be early, that she 
might have a private conversation with her niece. 
As Margaret's guardian, she felt the duty incum- 
bent upon her of knowing how matters were pro- 
gressing between the girl and Douglass. She had 
fully expected to see her when she returned from 
her neighbor's the evening before, and, greatly to 
her surprise, she had found the library vacated and 
Margaret retired. It was an early hour for lovers, 
and the circumstance had impressed her a little un- 
favorably. She was really now, she told herself, 
quite anxious for the union between Margaret and 
Douglass, an alliance that would undoubtedly re- 
flect glory on her family. She was thinking over 
these prospective advantages when she heard Mar- 
garet's step on the stair. 



314 


SURPRISE 


“My dear, you can no longer consider yourself 
the champion early riser of the family. You have 
broken your record this morning,” exclaimed Mrs. 
Lansdowne, as her niece entered the room. 

“I had such a severe headache, Aunt Frances, I 
concluded to lie still a while to see whether it would 
not pass over.” 

Mrs. Lansdowne noticed the shadows under the 
girl’s eyes, the unaccustomed palor on her cheek, 
and she was not slow to draw conclusions. The 
early separation of M'argaret and Douglass the 
previous evening, Margaret’s late appearance, 
coupled with her severe headache, were circum- 
stances connecting themselves casually with each 
other, to her mind. She was, however, too true a 
diplomat to give verbal expression to such an in- 
ference. 

“I am sorry, dear; did you not sleep well, last 
night?” Mrs. Lansdowne assumed an expression 
of concerned inquiry. “I did not sleep very well 
the early part of the night,” Margaret responded, 
and then lapsed into silence. She took a chair 
near to her aunt. 

Mrs. Lansdowne concluded to change her tactics. 
She stretched out her hand and laid it affectionate- 
ly upon Margaret's. 

“Margaret, Margaret,” she said in a tone of play- 
ful chiding, “I do believe you are homesick! My 
dear, I am surprised! I thought you proof against 
such disease.” 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


315 


Margaret smiled. Mrs. Lansdowne saw that it 
was a poor, forced effort. 

“Will you deny it?” pressed! her aunt. 

“You think I am homesick, because I happened 
not to sleep very well for once and' in consequence 
have a headache?” asked Margaret. 

“O, well, well, my dear, I will not press the 
question further. You will be all right in a day or 
two, if it should be only that. Come, I have a far 
more important inquiry to put; but I will not be 
answered by questions,” she added, laughingly, 
shaking a jewelled finger at Margaret. “I want to 
know if it is not time to bring Mr. Douglass to the 
point! I dare say, you dear unsophisticated girl, 
that you would tell me you do not know the mean- 
ing of the term — but you must learn. It takes the 
city to broaden one’s ideas. I know, for I have 
lived, you see, in both city and country. Mr. Doug- 
lass is a grand catch, Margaret. Any girl would 
give her head to get him. He has shown more 
serious attention to you than to any one else in 
Beechdlale. I have been watching it all, my dear. 
Remember, I feel a mother’s interest and love for 
my dead sister’s child.” Here Mrs. Lansdowne 
was apparently in danger of an overflow of feeling. 
She rallied, however, and continued. “I am per- 
fectly aware that you have very pronounced views 
regarding decorum, Margaret, and these are very 
well in their proper places, but do not carry them 
to extremes. Love must be dealt with peculiarly. 


316 


SURPRISE 


A woman can easily draw on a man, and without 
losing, you understand, the smallest portion of her 
own self-respect, indeed, without the man having 
the least suspicion himself of the harmless strategy. 
Now, that is just the course you must pursue, Mar- 
garet. No one could carry it out more gracefully 
and affectionately than you. You would know just 
what to say and just what to do. In short, my 
dear, make Malcolm Douglass propose!” 

Mrs. Lansdowne paused, perhaps to note the ef- 
fect of her words. The answer certainly came be- 
fore she expected it. “Aunt Frances, the result 
you so desire, is already a thing of the past, but I 
assure you there was no covert attempt on my part 
to bring it about.” 

Mrs. Lansdowne fairly gasped out her astonish- 
ment: “Margaret, has he really proposed!?” 

“He asked me two weeks ago to become his 
wife,” she replied, measuredly, and with averted 
eyes. Mtrs. Lansdowne saw the girl's breast heave 
convulsively. “Last night,” continued Margaret, 
“he came for his answer, and — ” 

“O, Margaret, you didn't — ” broke in her aunt, 
hysterically. 

“Refuse him? Yes!” finished the girl, proudly. 

“Goodhess!” ejaculated Mrs. Lansdowne. Per- 
haps she felt at this critical point an instinctive 
turning to an omniscient power, for it would cer- 
tainly take a higher intellect than her own to com- 
prehend such a human paradox as confronted her. 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


3i 7 


“Margaret, are you mad? What do you mean? 
Do you realize what you have thrown away?” 

“Fully,” answered her niece. “I have thrown 
away an offer to become the wife of a man who 
thinks that a past life of self-indulgence can be 
cast from him at will, and he still remain fitted to 
satisfy the noblest and highest cravings of a pure 
woman. It is not necessary to tell you how this 
condemning information was brought to me. This 
is sufficient 1 proof of its truth — he did not deny it. 
I believe this good of him, now, however, he did 
not intentionally offer an insult to me. O, Aunt 
Frances, however willing some may be to slacken 
the reins on morality — I cannot, cannot ! Think of 
the sacredness of the marriage relation and con- 
sider for one moment how it must appear in the eye 
of God when that relation is so heedlessly, ruthless- 
ly dealt with! To me there can be no marriage 
when there is no union of souls. Truth unites and 
perfidy separates. The ceremony performed at the 
altar no more makes a marriage than creed makes 
religion. Mr. Douglass* wealth, social position, 
pedigree are nothing to me, absolutely nothing! I 
bring to him a pure womanhood, he offers to me a 
debauched and corrupted manhood. These are the 
conditions that are lasting. Feeling as I do, do 
you not think I have done right to act as I did?” 

Mrs. Lansdowne’s wandering mind came back to 
present facts at the question, to tell the truth this 
little moral homily by her niece had grown weari- 


SURPRISE 


3 l8 

some to her long- before it ended. She had gone 
oft on a mental sojourn, where she beheld herself 
and family the cynosure of every eye as connections 
not only of Mr. Frederick William Lansdowne — 
but allied to the proud and ancient House of Doug- 
lass. She saw, in her ecstatic vision, Margaret ar- 
ranged in satins and precious Douglass jewels, and 
moving about her magnificent drawing room 
among a group of select friends. Her own daugh- 
ters were in a fair way of allying themselves with 
the very cream of American aristocracy, perhaps — ! 
She would! have soon, doubtless, been standing at 
European courts, had not Margaret's question 
struck the bell of doom to all her gossamer castles. 
They melted away instantly. She was back once 
more in her own library, and conscious of the crush- 
ing truth that had shattered so many hopes and 
plans. 

Mrs. Lansdowne had some vague, subconscious 
knowledge of Margaret’s defense of her action, but 
she would have been utterly unable, even though 
she had paid close attention to it, to have entered 
into the discussion with anything approaching sym- 
pathetic interest. It would have taken far more 
than a few moment's consideration of the subject 
to give Mrs. Lansdowne any higher realization of 
morals than she possessed. 

“You are a strange girl, Margaret!" was Mrs. 
Lansdowne's reply to her niece's question, and the 
sigh which followed revealed to Margaret how ut- 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


319 


terly futile had been the attempt to vindicate her 
action. Viewing Margaret critically a moment, 
Mrs. Lansdowne supplemented her words with a 
grave and prophetic observation: 

“I am very much afraid, my dear, that you will 
never get married!” 

Whether Mrs. Lansdowne would have consid- 
ered it worth her while to continue the conversa- 
tion in a last desperate attempt to change Mar- 
garet’s views and so induce her to reverse her de- 
cision is a question. At the very moment a pierc- 
ing shriek from above made the hearts of both wo- 
men fairlv stand still. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


ELOPEMENT. 

HEN Mrs. Lansdowne was able to get 
the better of her alarms, she cried: 

“What is it, Katheryn? Is the house 
on fire?" 

By this time both Margaret and her 
aunt were at the foot of the stairs, 
where Katheryn, wide-eyed and trem- 
bling, stood in her morning gown, one 
hand on the balustrade, the other 
clutching a little piece of white paper. 

“Mamma,” she panted, “Maud has gone — run 
away! She left this! She has gone with — with — 
Uncle Frederick's coachman!" 

Mrs. Lansdowne gave one gasp and fell, without 
a word in a helpless heap at Margaret's feet. Kath- 
eryn s cry brought Elinoir and Yzabel from their 
rooms, and their excited wails and questions only 
added to the pandemonium. 

“O, Margaret, what will we do?" cried Elinoir, 
wringing her hands. “Think of the disgrace — a 
coachman! O! O! O!" 

“We must think of Aunt Frances, and of Maud 
afterward 1 ," answered Margaret. “Katheryn get 
some water! Quick!" 



A MODERN PATRICIAN 


321 


In a few moments Margaret was bathing her aunt's 
forehead and lips. Her efforts to restore her were 
soon rewarded, and the color began to creep back 
once more. A faint sigh escaped her lips, and the 
wretched mother became conscious again of the 
awful realities of life. With the aid of Elinoir and 
Margaret, she was supported to a couch in the 
library, and Katheryn ran over to break the news 
to her uncle and aunt. 

The next ten minutes brought all too surely the 
verification of Maud's message. James was not to 
be found, nor had he been seen that morning. Mrs. 
Lansdowne sent word that she and her husband 
would be over immediately. 

This news precipitated another hvsterical attack 
from Mrs. Lansdbwne. 

“Aunt Frances," pleaded Margaret, almost de- 
sperate," you will certainly bring on a serious ill- 
ness if you do not control yourself better. Try to 
bear up under the trouble. I know the blow is an 
awful one, but — ” 

“O, Margaret, do not talk about ‘control’ to 
me. You know nothing of what I suffer — you can 
know nothing. Wait until you are a mother, to 
see your children grow up, watched, cared for, 
planned for during ever) waking hour, only to 
bring disgrace upon you and your family. O, it is 
too hor-hor-hor-ible! If I had never raised her 
carefully, it would be different. But everyone 
knows just how I have slaved for my children. Dr. 


3 22 


AN ELOPEMENT 


Winthrop has often said to me, 'Mrs. Lansdowne, 
you are a model mother, one in a thousand/ How 
many times I have threatened to send Maud to the 
convent. God knows, I wish I had done so before 
she lived to disgrace all of us! How can I ever 
look Frederick and Clarissa in the face! To 
think of bringing this awful humiliation upon them 
and, O, the Chattertons will feel it so! I wouldn't 
be surprised if they would try to break the engage- 
ment between Yzabel and Fletcher. The whole 
thing will be in the paper, before night and every- 
body will be talking about us. Nobody will want 
to marry the girls after this disgrace." 

“O, Aunt Frances, these results you speak of are 
all the weavings of your imagination. No one who 
has any consideration, charity or common sense 
will ever dream of casting upon Maud's mother and 
sisters any infamy because of her wrong-doing. Try 
to cheer up! Mir. Lansdowne is a keen, level- 
headed man. He will know just what steps to take 
in the matter, I am sure. Maud may be traced 
and brought back before night, a penitent girl." 

‘'She is beyond penitence," broke in Mrs. Lans- 
downe, this time wrathfully. "I am sure she has 
had instruction enough of a religious nature to keep 
her from doing wrong. You ought to have seen 
Margaret, the pains the girls and I took when she 
had her first communion last year. She knew the 
catechism perfectly, didn't she, Katheryn? And of 
her own accord during Lent she did without honey 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


323 


and salad and — and — there were several things 
more, weren’t there, Elinoir? I know Dr. Har- 
court was especially delighted when he heard of it. 
He told me privately that he thought Maud’s spir- 
itual nature was very strongly developed. And 
now — now — think of it — to run away with a coach- 
man, a low-down mortal like that ! O, if I had but 
listened to Father Frohman! He told me that a 
convent life would be just the thing for Maud. I 
suppose he knew her better than I, whose eyes 
were so entirely blinded by a mother’s love.” 

“Mamma, here comes Uncle Frederick and Aunt 
Clarissa. Shall I let them in?” asked Yzabel. 

“Yes, child, there is no need to have Betty come 
around when it is unnecessary. You better go, I 
think, all of you, and try to eat. Breakfast will be 
served in a moment. I will try to bear up as well 
as I can.” Yzabel received her relatives, and after 
a few whispered words of greeting directed them 
to her mother, and left them. 

Margaret heard at intervals from behind the 
closed doors of the library her aunt’s periodic little 
shrieks. By and by, however, they became farther 
and farther apart, and at last, to the infinite satis- 
faction of the little company in the dining room, 
ceased altogether. 

When the almost untasted meal was over, the 
four girls went softly upstairs. There, they talked 
over the awful disaster that had befallen them, the 
sisters condemning their mother severely for not 


3 2 4 


AN ELOPEMENT 


ruling in a more high-handed manner this incor- 
rigible daughter. 

“O, girls, do not blame your mother so/’ pleaded 
Margaret. “We are none of us wise enough to 
fasten the remote causes of Maud's action upon 
any one. Perhaps, if you yourselves had spoken 
to her a little more kindly than you often did; had 
made her feel more as one of you, rather than as 
one banished from the inner circle of the home; 
had treated her not so much as if she were a child, 
but more as one beginning to feel the stirrings of 
young womanhood; perhaps, had you done all 
these things, you might have helped Maud to check 
wrong desire and more wrong action." 

“ O , of course, blame us!” sobbed Katheryn. 
“You know nothing about it. You have not been 
tried beyond endurance with her petulance and her 
insufferable dullness. Mamma was too lenient, 
that was all ! She should have put her in a convent 
long ago, as we wanted her to do; but, no, Uncle 
Frederick had offered to educate her at Bvrn 
Mawr, and to Bryn Mawr she must go whether she 
wished to or not. I really believe the horror of that 
martyrdom led her to take the first opportunity to 
escape.” 

And so they talked and argued, until they heard 
Mr. Lansdowne depart. Then Katheryn slipped 
down to her mother. She returned shortly, with 
the encouraging news that she was quiet and that 
Uncle Frederick had gone to find what he could 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


325 


of the runaways. He would put detectives imme- 
diately to work and if possible apprehend the pair 
before many hours had passed. 

In the meantime there was nothing to do but 
wait — the hardest of all duties imposed upon an 
anxious heart. 

The day dragged its slow length by. Hours 
weighted down with sorrow, move but slowly. Twi- 
light came on, with its phantoms in every corner, 
its voices in every sighing wind and creaking door; 
then darkness descended, the impenetrable curtain 
that seems to mock every attempt to fathom the 
mysteries which it hides. Sitill no word had come 
as to the whereabouts of the erring girl. 

Margaret was the only one who could in any 
way be accounted calm. Mrs. Lansdowne, when 
not in an apathetic state from sheer exhaustion, 
oscillated between a tirade against Maud and 
foreboding speculations as to how her daughter’s 
conduct would affect their social status. 

At about ten in the evening Mr. Lansdowne 
came to say that it was almost certain the two had 
been traced to Bailey, fifty miles from Leyton, and' 
that the authorities there had been notified to hold 
any parties answering to the description of the 
runaways. With this consolation, the family, un- 
der advice of Mr. Lansdowne, retired to get, if pos- 
sible, a little rest after the excitement of the day. 

Margaret's own burdens had been unselfishly rele- 
gated to a secondary place when in the presence 


326 


AN ELOPEMENT 


of what she felt must be a mightier sorrow than her 
own. But now in her room and by herself all the 
experiences of the last two days swept over her 
with terrific force. She became suddenly aware 
that these experiences through which she had been 
called upon to pass had made terrible inroads upon 
her physical strength. Now that she needed no 
longer, for the sake of others, to draw upon her 
surplus energy, she felt how much the constant de- 
mand for self-control had really cost her. The 
very well spring of vitality seemed exhausted. All 
exuberance of spirit, the superabundant life which 
she had always felt seemed suddenly now to have 
left her, and with this physical weakness came the 
knowledge that she was for the first time in her 
life bereft of the support of human love and sym- 
pathy. 

She had been living, during all these weeks of 
her stay amid the glamorous scenes of the Palace 
of Pleasure; but the brilliant hues were now fading 
into sickly pallor. iShe found herself longing with 
an infinite longing, as we all do, when the dreams 
of our present are suddenly shattered, for the 
sweet experiences of the past. Beechdale, with its 
broad avenues, its palatial homes, its glittering as- 
semblies, its laughter and its shams, melted away. 
She was back once more at Clover Farm, seated 
by the side of a gray-haired man, her hand upon his 
shoulder, his hand resting tenderly upon her head 1 . 
And Phillip came and stood beside her, his dark 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


327 


eyes looking into hers. Their light seemed to pene- 
trate her very soul. “Phillip,” she cried out, and 
pressed her hands upon her brow. But Phillip, deep 
in slumber, at that very moment, was curled up 
upon his lounge, where he had thrown himself in 
very weariness of mind and body, and pressed 
against his lips was a picture of Margaret. 

The sound of her own voice startled her into a 
realization of her surroundings. She was once 
more in the present; yet back from the past stole 
an aroma that soothed her tortured nerves. It 
seemed suddenly as though a great weight had 
been lifted from her. She had left it somewhere 
within the land of shadows, whither she had gone. 
Soon she sank into a quiet, peaceful slumber, as 
had not blessed her eyes for many weary nights. 


CHAPTER XXXV I. 


THE RETURN. 

HE next morning when Margaret en- 
tered her aunt’s room, she found her 
sitting propped up im bed with a light 
blue shawl thrown gracefully about her 
shoulders. On her niece’s entrance, 
Mrs. Lansdowne’s tears began forth* 
with to flow. “I have not slept a wink 
— not a wink,” she quavered. “O, 
mamma,” cried Katheryn, coming in 
moment of her mother’s assertion, “Bet- 
ty told me, when I asked her a few moments ago, 
that she found you sleeping when she came in to 
bring you a little fruit.” 

“Betty was entirely mistaken, Katheryn. How 
do you suppose that I could sleep and my child 
wandering, God knows where? I tell you, I never 
slept a wink! Hand me that cau de cologne from, 
my dresser. I told Betty not to put it so far away. 
I did not want to call any of you from rest to wait 
on me. Ah, no one understands the sorrows of a 
mother until she herself has had the sad experi- 
ence. Katheryn, what is it that Shakespeare says 
about the few thanks one gets for rearing their 




A MODERN PATRICIAN 


329 


children? You know I gave it last Saturday after- 
noon as a ‘gleaming' at the Shakespeare Club.” 

“O, I am sure I do not know, mamma; do not 
ask me. I can't keep up with your clubs and my 
own, too.” 

“Do you mean the quotation from King Lear: 
“More bitter than a serpent's tooth it is, 

To have a thankless child!” 
asked Margaret, pitying her aunt's perplexity. 

“Yes, that is it! Ah, how prophetic it was that 
I should have quoted such a couplet! I suppose 
all the members will think of it, too, when they hear 
about this awful disgrace. O, how can I ever, ever 
look into any one's face again! How I dread to 
see the paper. Frederick said he would do his best 
to keep it out of all of them, but I fear — I fear. 
Kathervn, ring for the paper, child. I must have 
it!” But before Katheryn had risen to do her moth- 
er's bidding Yzabel flung open the door, followed 
by Elinoir with the fateful paper in her hands. 

Mrs. Lansdowne gave an incipient scream and 
extended her jewelled left hand to Elinoir. Mrs. 
Lansdowne, never, no matter what the distractions 
of the situation, made the mistake of flourishing the 
wrong hand. 

“Is there — any — thing in the paper?” she asked, 
excitedly. 

“Lots!” announced Elinoir. “I slipped down- 
stairs, half an hour ago to get it. There is nearly 
a column right on the first page. Shall I read it?” 


330 


THE RETURN 


“Give me a glass of port, first, to calm my nerves. 
Thanks! Now, I suppose I may try to endure 
this extra torture !” 

“Pshaw! it isn’t so bad, mamma. I suppose 
Uncle Frederick couldn’t keep it out entirely, but 
they have treated us very fairly,” said Elinoir. 

Mrs. Lansdowne sighed, lay back on her plilows, 
glanced in a cheval mirror opposite and composed 
herself to listen. 

Elinoir began to read in a voice hardly tuned to 
humiliation : 

ROMANCE IN HIGH LIFE. 


A Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing Invades the Fold of 
Beechdale Aristocracy. 


Maud Lansdowne, Niece of Frederick William 
Lansdowne, Enticed From Her Home 
by the Latter’s Coachman. 


“Shall I go on, mamma?” 

“Of course, go on,” broke in Katheryn, “leaning 
over her sister’s shoulder. “What do you suppose 
she would want to have you stop in the midst of it 
for?” 

Elinoir, emphatically, if not politely urged, re- 
sumed : 

A shock will be given this morning to Beech- 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


33i 


dale society, such as doubtless it has seldom before 
experienced, when it is learned that the youngest 
daughter of Mrs. Frances Lansdowne of Beech 
Ave., Beechdale, left her home sometime early yes- 
terday morning, before the family were astir, in 
company with James Blakely, a coachman in the 
employ of Mr. Frederick William Lansdowne, uncle 
of the girl. 

“Miss Maud is but fifteen years old, though 
physically very well developed, for her age; of ex- 
ceedingly attractive appearance, cultured and re- 
fined in manner. Of high intellectual endowments, 
she yet possessed a certain native candor of man- 
ner that marks her as still possessing the spon- 
taneity of action and fascinating impulsiveness of 
childhood. 

“All that wealth and love could suggest has been 
hers, and never has she in any way shown the 
slightest tendency for low associates. She has 
been, however, during the past year, thrown in 
close and frequent association with young Blakely, 
who drove her every morning to Miss Hunting- 
ton’s School. 

Blakely is not a bad-looking fellow, and if 
dressed in the latest cut would make a fairly good 
appearance. Those who know him, say that he 
has rather a captivating manner for one of his class, 
and in this fact, perhaps, lies the solution of the 
mystery. Blakely, recognizing the simplicity and 
inexperience of his young victim, took advantage 


33 2 


THE RETURN 


of the opportunities given him and ingratiated him- 
self little by little into the childfs unsuspecting 
heart. Nothing in the girl’s former actions or 
words has in the least led her friends to suspect 
anything wrong, and it is believed that the act was 
one purely of impulse on her part, however, pre- 
meditated, it may have been on that of her diaboli- 
cal tempter. Detectives have been detailed on the 
matter and everything is being done to apprehend 
the missing pair, and it is thought they will be 
traced before many hours. The family will have 
the heartfelt sympathy of a host of friends, who 
hope with them for a speedy and happy conclusion 
to the little episode. 

“As has been stated previously, the girl is a niece 
of Frederick William Lansdowne, whose palatial 
residence in Beechdale is known far and wide. Ever 
since his brother’s death, Mr. Lansdowne has been 
a father to his four lovely nieces, and this blow falls 
heavily upon a heart so recently bereaved by the 
death of his only daughter, wife of Mr. Gerald 
Scranley-McClure, English consul to Berlin. Mr. 
Scranley-McClure is a son of the Egyptologist, 
Norton Scranley-McClure, and grandson of the 
late Sir Scranley-McClure of Scranley House, 
Berkshire.” 

“They certainly have treated the matter very im- 
partially,” remarked Mrs. Lansdowne, languidly, 
from her pillows, when Elinoir had closed in fine 
oratorical style: 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


333 


“I suppose that is because we are so well known 
to the reporters, mamma/' exclaimed Katheryn. 
'‘You see, Margaret, our names are so often in the 
papers they know all about us, and sometimes 
know more than we ourselves know. Reporters 
will never leave society people alone.” 

Margaret remembered a certain conversation be- 
tween Miss Burton and some members of the fam- 
ily, on an occasion a few months previous, and she 
drew her own conclusions as to the unsolicited con- 
cern of newspaper reporters. 

“I think, Katheryn,” observed her mother, a lit- 
tle later, “it would be wise to telephone for Dr. 
YVinthrop this morning. My nerves are in a 
wretched condition and there is no telling what I 
may still be called upon to pass through.” 

Mrs. Lansdowne had doubtless felt, long before 
the present moment, a crying need for Dr. Win- 
throp’s pills and Dr. Winthrop’s soothing tones. 
She had, however, fought against her own welfare, 
for her humiliation had been too great to allow her 
to see even the dear doctor. Now matters had 
taken on a decidiedly different complexion. She 
was, at this moment, fairly swelling with pride, and 
a look of deep complacency was creeping over her 
features. “Where has Yzabel gone?” she inquired. 

Over to Phoebe s, mamma,” answered Elinoir. 
She is so fearful of the results of this affair, espe- 
cially since it has come out publicly. But, really, 

I think her forebodings are all useless after this ar- 


334 


THE RETURN 


tide. Here is Betty, mamma, with your breakfast. 
We will go down now to eat. I will telephone to 
Dr. Winthrop.” 

When the girls reached the library they saw Mr. 
Lansdowne coming across the lawn. Katheryn 
opened the door just as he stepped upon the porch. 

“O, Uncle Frederick,” she cried, “have you heard 
anything?” 

“Yes/’ he answered, “I have encouraging news. 
A few moments ago I received a message. The 
two were stopped as they got off the train at 
Kranzburg. They had not been able to obtain a 
license. The message was brief, but they will ar- 
rive at Leyton this morning. I will see to every- 
thing. Tell your mother to keep calm. Your aunt 
has a severe neuralgic attack and cannot come over 
this morning. Good-bye.” 

Yzabel came in while the rest were still at the 
breakfast table. She was in high glee. Dear 
Fletcher had been lovely to her. He had almost 
fainted when she had proposed breaking the en- 
gagement because of the disgrace which Maud's 
actions might bring upon him. 

Dr. Winthrop called shortly after, and what, with 
the remedial agencies he left behind, together with 
the frequent small doses of flattery he administered 
while present, Mrs. Lansdowne's nerves became at 
once so stimulated and she arose so many degrees 
higher in her own estimation, that the gratifying 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


335 


result was a frame of mind, quite beyond the influ- 
ence of earthly pain or sorrow. 

It was nearly one o’clock before a message came 
to the waiting family that Maud was at last in the 
care of her uncle. 

Margaret tried to persuade her aunt to dtess and 
to be ready to receive her repentant daughter, but 
Mrs. Lansdowne had no such thought in mind. 
She felt that Maud needed an object lesson, and the 
one of a heart-broken and prostrated mother was 
not to be neglected. 

Margaret felt that Maud was equally blameable 
with her companion, but she nevertheless saw what 
might have been the slowly accumulating causes 
for her action. Though Mrs. Lansdowne did not 
for an instant consider that she had been other than 
a model mother, Margaret had seen enough of the 
discipline used to know that the girl had never for 
a day experienced the true mother affection which 
she ought to have had. To Maud Lansdowne these 
years of childhood and young girlhood were but 
years of school drudgery and social seclusion. The 
only ray of light penetrating the darkness being the 
ever distant one of emancipation at eighteen. That 
the girl had been driven by misdirected discipline to 
seek the first opportunity to escape from these re- 
strictions seemed to Margaret a most plausible in- 
ference. 

"Mamma, what are we going to do with Maud?” 


336 


THE RETURN 


inquired Yzabel. “She has disgraced us and her- 
self sufficiently for the rest of her natural life.” 

Mrs. Lansdowne looked intently at her rings for 
a few moments and applied her smelling salts; then 
she said, with the complacent tones of one who has 
come to the solution of a difficulty] long wrestled 
with: 

“I intend, Yzabel, to have her placed in the Ursu- 
line Convent. I told your uncle to see Father Froh- 
man at once. I have threatened this punishment 
enough, but with a mother’s long suffering and 
mercy, I have withheld it. I will do so no longer. 
She must go immediately, to remain until she is 
eighteen. By that time she may be a better girl 
and her disgraceful conduct may have been in a 
measure forgotten.” 

Margaret could not remain silent. “O, Aunt 
Frances,” she exclaimed, “do you not believe that 
Maud may have repented sincerely of this act? 
Might she not be reclaimed without secluding her 
in this manner? Perhaps, if she saw how this 
wrong of hers has crushed all your hearts, that, 
though such willfulness and deception would justly 
forfeit your confidence in her, you are willing to 
forgive and begin all over again, she might become 
a different girl?” 

“You speak theoretically, Margaret, not practi- 
cally,” answered Mrs. Lansdowne. “You know 
very little of Maud’s nature, which is and always has 
been unruly and entirely averse to restraint of any 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


337 


kind. She has been allowed her own way too much 
instead of being subjected to restriction, as you 
seem to think. I am no longer able physically to 
bear the responsibility. I have literally given my 
life for my children. It is impossible, you should 
understand a mother’s work.” 

Mrs. Lansdowne brought her teeth together with 
a snap. She began to apply her smelling salts now 
more vigorously, and to display premonitory symp- 
toms of wounded feelings. Margaret recognized 
that any further reformatory plans on her part 
would be useless. She was pondering how she 
might direct further outbreak on her aunt’s part, 
when Elinoir rushed in to say that her uncle’s car- 
riage had just come into sight. 

Margaret felt she had no right to witness the hu- 
miliating home-coming and the meeting between 
Maud and her family; so, when the carriage entered 
the gateway, she went quickly and unnoticed to her 
own room. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 


MAUD’S PUNISHMENT. 

HE home-coming was over, the meet- 
ing of wronged mother and wayward 
daughter had taken place. From her 
room Margaret could hear her aunt's 
tones, now and then rising, hysterically 
and in the intervals her cousins' voices 
in heated dispute. Only once or twice 
did she recognize Maud's voice dur- 
ing the hours which followed her ar- 
rival. At last the door of Mrs. Lansdowne's room 
opened and she heard Maud's heavy footsteps turn- 
ing in the direction of her own room. 

When luncheon was served the girls partook of 
the meal alone. 

'‘Does Maud seem to feel sorry for what she 
did?" inquired Margaret. 

"You can get nothing from her," answered Eli- 
noir. "Uncle Frederick said she seemed very much 
ashamed of herself when she saw him, and pleaded 
to be taken home at once." 

"I suppose she had a fear that she might possibly 
be sent to the penitentiary for the remainder of her 
natural life," interposed Katheryn, with a sarcastic 
laugh. "Uncle Frederick, by the way, thinks it is 



A MODERN PATRICIAN 


339 


best to let the matter about Blakely drop, as it would 
only call for more publicity. He frightened the fel- 
low so that he promised to leave here immediately 
and never let himself be seen again near Leyton, 
and the sooner we get Maud away the better. Peo- 
ple's mouths will be closed then, perhaps." 

“Does she know that she is to be sent to the con- 
vent?" asked Margaret. 

“That is the trouble, now," answered Elinoir. 
“‘Mamma told her that her patience was entirely 
exhausted; that she had made her mind up and 
that there would be no change in her purpose. 
Maud shut up in her old stubborn way, and mam- 
ma at last told her to go to her own room." 

“Margaret," said Yzabel, “mamma would like 
you to go to see her after luncheon. She appears 
to fancy you. Perhaps you might be able to put 
her in a better frame of mind." 

“She needn't attempt to persuade you to inter- 
fere in her behalf about the convent," broke in 
Katheryn, “To the convent she must go !" 

Margaret was entirely willing to carry out her 
aunt s desire, and later, with a cup of steaming 
bouillon and a few crackers to act as reconcilers, 
she knocked at Maud's door. As this elicited no 
answer, Margaret concluded to try the effect of 
vocal persuasion. 

Maud seemed to relent at the sound of her cous- 
in's winning voice, and presently answered in a 
sort of hopeless way: “Come in!" 


340 


MAUD’S PUNISHMENT 


ISihe was lying stretched out on her bed. It was 
quite evident that she had been crying. As Mar- 
garet’s calm eyes searched her face, a crimson flush 
spread over it. 

‘"Maud, I have brought you a little something to 
eat,” Margaret began. 

Maud gave an angry jerk of refusal and buried 
her face in her arms, but Margaret went on as 
though she had not noticed the act. 

“You will feel much better, you know, when you 
have eaten something. Do not think, Maud, that 
I have come here to taunt you or to find fault. I 
am here as your friend, toi help you, if I may. I 
know you are tired and wretched, but I think when 
you are rested and have eaten something you will 
feel less miserable. Everything then will look 
more bright. That is the reason I have brought 
you this. Won’t you drink it to please me?” 

There was a moment’s silence, then Maud lifted 
her face, still with its sullen expression upon it. 

“Do you know what I said to myself that I would 
do?” she asked. 

Margaret smiled. “How could I? You did not 
tell me.” 

“ W ell — I — said — I — would never — eat — 'another 
bite! I’d die rather than go to that convent!” 

The concentrated wrath that burned in the girl’s 
eyes and distorted her features made Margaret 
shudder. What woeful gulf of separation here be- 
tween mother and child, she thought. 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


341 


‘“Are they going to send me there?” she de- 
manded. 

“We will talk of that by and by, Maud. Now, I 
want you to eat this, will you not?’ 

There was a yielding expression on Maud’s face. 

“I knew you would,” she said, following up her 
point of vantage and extending the tray toward her, 
as though she felt assured of its acceptance. 

A smile, half-pouting, half good-natured, forced 
its difficult way over Maud’s face as she took the 
food. Margaret was a psychologist of the modern 
school and believed that a rational mind could best 
be subserved under favoring physical conditions; 
indeed, she was assured there would be but small 
chance of coming to any harmonious conclusions 
through the medium of an empty stomach. 

“Now, do you not feel better? Come, confess!” 
insisted Margaret, when the bouillon and crackers 
had disappeared, and Maud reluctantly yielded the 
point. 

“You think I am awful, of course. Everybody 
does,” blurted out Maud, suddenly. 

“I didn’t come here, I told you, Maud, to discuss 
what has happened. I — ” 

“What did you come for, then?” interrupted the 
girl. “That is all there is to talk about, that I 
know of.” 

“I think there is something else. I want to talk 
to you about being a better girl. Let us leave all 


342 


MAUD'S PUNISHMENT 


the bitter mistakes of the past alone — begin all over 
again, you know.” 

An angry flame leaped from Maud's eyes and she 
drew suspiciously away from the arm half encircling 
her. 

‘'You've come have you, to get me to say I am 
willing to 'go to that dreadful convent, and stay till 
I'm eighteen? They're ashamed of me, and want 
to get me off. They know I’ll fight against it to the 
last. If I go, I'll never rest till I climb the walls. 
They think you can soften me down. The rest 
can't keep their tempers long enough to work me 
over. I tell you, if that is what you came for, you 
may go. I'll never give in. I'd die first!” 

She brought her clinched hand down upon a lit- 
tle mahogany table with such force as to make a 
delicate piece of Dresden leap in the air and fall to 
the floor, shattered into countless pieces. 

“O, Maud!” cried Margaret, rebukingly. But 
Maud did not even look at the wreck she had made. 

“Do you know why I ran away?” she continued. 
“To be free and to have somebody to care for me 
a little. Mamma doesn't. It's only her clubs and 
the girls' beaux she cares for. When I came ‘out' 
then I was to have a fine party and everything I 
wanted. I got tired waiting. I couldn't stand it! 
I'm not a baby!” 

Overcome by the fury of her passion, her over- 
wrought feelings found a vent in scalding tears and 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


343 


she sobbed as if the very depths of her insulted na- 
ture had been broken up. 

“Poor child! Poor child!” breathed Margaret, 
softly. “Your mother and sisters do love you, but 
all the trouble lies right here, Maud; you do not un- 
derstand them and they do not understand you, so 
everything has gone wrong, hasn’t it?” 

After awhile, when the paroxysm had somewhat 
abated, Margaret ventured to say: 

“Now, Maud, you are younger than the others 
and you have grieved them so, too, and caused 
them so much anxiety — how much you cannot real- 
ize — could you not go to your mother after awhile, 
after all the bitterness has gone out of your heart, 
I mean, and tell her how sorry you are that you 
have mad'e her suffer so, that you want them all to 
trust you once more. Don’t you think you might 
be able to do that?” A sob came in answer. “She 
will know then that you love her and you will find 
out, I am sure, how she loves you.” 

Maud suddenly lifted her tear-stained face and 
said: “O, Margaret, do you think if I promised 
mamma I would be a good girl and would do just 
as she says, she would tell me that I would not 
have to go to the convent?” 

“I cannot tell, Maud, about that. Do what I say 
first,” answered Margaret, evasively. Her heart 
misgave her as she thought of the hopelessness of 
any such happy conclusion. “Won’t you, O, won’t 
you, dear Margaret,” cried the poor child, despair- 


344 


MAUD’S PUNISHMENT 


ingly, “do all you can to keep me from being 
locked up? I believe I could be good if you would 
show me how.” 

“Yes, dear, I promise you I will,” answered Mar- 
garet. “Now lie down and get perfectly calm be- 
fore you see your mother again.” 

Margaret placed her hand on Maud’s shoulder 
with a gentle persuasive pressure. Maud yielded 
to it without a demur, and Margaret bent down and 
imprinted a kiss on her cousin’s tear-stained cheek 
and left her. 

She went immediately to her aunt’s room. 
Within the last few moments, because of a few 
words that Maud had said, a plan had flashed 
through her busy brain. She had faith that if it 
could be carried! out, it would! solve, not only Mrs. 
Lansdowne’s difficulty, but at the same time free 
Maud from the terrors of convent life. 

She found her aunt alone. “I have just left 
Maud,” she began. “I think she feels sorry for 
what she has done, Aunt Frances.” 

“And well she might if she were capable of feel- 
ing, which she is not, or she could never have 
looked upon me lying almost at death’s door from 
the shock, without a tremor. I told her Dr. Win- 
throp said I was in a very critical condition, and 
she never made a comment or shed a tear.” With 
the contemplation of such an indignity, Mrs. Lans- 
downe broke completely down. 

“Dear Aunt Frances, I know what a heavy trial 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


345 


this whole matter is, but I have a plan to suggest 
when you are able to listen. I think it might result, 
perhaps, in getting affairs more favorably adjusted 
and at the same time in bringing comfort to both 
you and Maud.” 

Mrs. Lansdowne’s curiosity was as easily 
aroused as a child’s. She dried her eyes and settled 
herself to listen. “I agree with you,” began Mar- 
garet, “that the best way to hush this whole matter 
up and to end the gossip is to send Maud away from 
here. It will be better for her, too. She needs to 
get away from everything that will remind her of 
the past. She is not wholly bad we all know. All 
she needs is to be made to look upon life in a no- 
bler way — to have an ideal and strive toward it. 
Maud and I have gotten along well together. I 
have been able often to influence her in little things, 
perhaps I might in matters of greater moment also. 
'Her heart is softened and she will be easily worked 
upon. Aunt Frances, give her to me instead of 
sending her to the convent ! Let me take her home 
with me to the fresh country air and the simple, 
quiet life as it is lived at Clover Farm.” 

She marked the frown of dissent upon her aunt’s 
brow, but she continued. “We will take long walks 
in the beautiful spring days, and who can tell but 
what the sweet influence from the awakening heart 
of nature may strike a responsive chord in her own 
breast. Forgive me, Aunt Frances, if I seem to go 
beyond what is my right, but I feel so deeply on 


346 


MAUD'S PUNISHMENT 


this subject. I cannot believe that virtue was or 
ever will be produced by compulsion. It can spring 
only from the free working of the human will. O, 
let me have her, let me try!” 

She clasped her hands together with the sudden 
passionate earnestness of one pleading for a life. 
Such fervor as stirred Margaret Stewart’s soul at 
that moment is the spirit of prevailing prayer. It 
was lost upon the mother, but the divine force was 
not expended for naught; no spiritual energy can 
be. Maud Lansdowne’s life forever after would be 
better for that prayer. It would follow her through 
eternity. The mother might modify its healing- 
power, she could not utterly destroy its potency. 

“Margaret, it is kind of you to take this interest 
in Maud. It is more than she deserves, I assure 
you,” answered Mrs. Lansdowne, blandly, though 
in determined tones. “You do not understand 
Maud, however, as well as I — her mother. I have 
pronounced her punishment. I cannot break my 
word. I have threatened, now I will perform. To 
go with you would be no punishment. She needs 
the bitter, not the sweet. There has been far too 
much leniency used with her.” 

But Margaret could see no abundance in the 
girl’s life — only awful, awful lack. She felt that the 
girl’s nature needed to be subjected to the addi- 
tional method of reform. Something needed to be 
added, not taken from her nature. 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


347 


“O, Aunt Frances, forgive me, but I cannot, can- 
not see it that way,” she cried. 

“I am her mother,” was the answer, indicating an 
unalterable decision. 

“Well, if it seems best to you, Aunt Frances,” 
consented Margaret, wearied at last with the futile 
argument. 

Mrs. Lansdowne heaved a sigh of relief. She felt 
she had gained her point by good reasoning. She 
could afford to be a little more confidential now 
that Margaret looked upon the matter sensibly. 

“You see, my dear, I have my child's future to 
consider from all standpoints. You not being her 
mother cannot see them all. I must look at her 
future from a social standpoint, as well as a moral. 
It will be better for her socially to go to a convent. 
It is society's edict for waywardness. You under- 
stand? There is a tone about it which will work to 
her best interests in the future. Now, my dear, this 
is a little piece of gossip I am going to tell, so you 
will not repeat it, of course. Mrs. Chatterton sent 
Phoebe to the same convent when she was a girl. 
She was very wild, but when she returned the girls 
simply flocked about her because she had spent 
three or four years at the Ursuline Convent in 
Philadelphia. You understand?” 

“'Yes, I understand.” 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 


UNEXPECTED MEETING. 

HE week that followed Maud's return 
was filled with bustle and excitement in 
preparation for her departure. After 
a day or so of dogged silence she be- 
gan to show symptoms of relenting 
and took a little feminine pride in her 
outfit. Through Father Frohman’s 
persuasive words, supplemented by 
Sister Carricena’s kind manner and 
pleasing pictures drawn of her future home, she 
departed 1 in a tolerably resigned!, if not wholly cheer- 
ful mood. 

As a conclusion to her daughter’s romantic ad- 
venture there appeared in the Herald a little item 
in regard to her future plans of interest to the cu- 
rious Beechdalians, and Mrs. Lansdowne was de- 
lighted with Miss Burton’s version of the affair. 
She really felt a few vibrations of the familiar thrill 
of triumph when she read 1 it, and a few days after 
her maternal anxieties were set entirely at rest 
when she received a letter from Maud. 

Mrs. Lansdowne had now recovered her wonted 
strength and spirits, and was down stairs once 
more, for there was no longer necessity for the ob- 
ject lesson heretofore enforced! for Maud’s spiritual 




A MODERN PATRICIAN 


349 


profit. Mrs. Lansdowne read the letter aloud at the 
breakfast table. 

“Dear mamma: (it ran) 

“I am here and the convent is a very nice place. 
The Mother Superior is so kind to me, and the 
Sisters, too. There are lots of nice girls here. Ca- 
milla Tracy, I like very much. Her mother came 
to see her yesterday, and when she knew I was a 
niece of Uncle Frederick she said that Camilla and 
I must be very goods friends. Camilla is awfully 
rich. They have a summer home at Newport. Ca- 
milla wants me to spend the summer with her there 
the year I am out. Won’t that be grand? 

“I go to Mass every morning. Camilla and I 
know when to bow almost every time, because we 
have both gone to high church. We are going to 
fast a good deal during Lent. All the nice girls are. 

“Good-bye, with love, 

“maYjd.” 

“P. S. Be sure to tell me whether I can go to 
Newport. Camilla wants to know, and then she 
will write to her mother.” 

“I think I did just the right thing for Maud;,” ex- 
claimed Mrs. Lansdowne, after finishing the letter. 
“Surely, as Dr. Harcourt said, ‘the Lord will watch 
over the fatherless and give wisdom to guide the 
orphan.’ How true it is!” Mrs. Lansdowne’s eyes 
were drenched in tears of thankfulness. “Dr. Har- 
court,” she continued, addressing Margaret, “thor- 
oughly believes, as a high churchman, in the benefi- 


350 


UNEXPECTED MEETING 


cial results of retirement and fasting to the spiritual 
nature. He is very high church, you know. In- 
deed, he has an altar and crucifix in his own room. 
I think high church appeals so to one’s spiritual 
nature.” 

“Well, Aunt Frances,” replied Margaret, “I can 
say with all my heart, that I hope it may turn out 
to the advancement of Maud’s highest needs.” 

And so the subject was closed. 

Now that the house had settled dbwn to its nor- 
mal condition, Margaret began to be possessed 
once more with a longing for home that could not 
be stifled. 

Excitement over, and the tension on nerves les- 
sened, every part of her seemed with united voice 
to cry out for the sweet quiet of home. The day 
after Maud’s letter she went out for her usual morn- 
ing walk, and with the feeling more strongly upon 
her than ever, she began to plan in earnest for her 
departure. 

As she passed the Park she heard a quick step 
on the gravelled path. The step seemed familiar, 
but she feared to look that way. In another mo 
ment a Scotch collie dashed up alongside of he\ 
and barked out his joyous greeting. She was posi- 
tive that the master was close at hand, and her 
heart began to throb heavily. 

The animal evidently felt itself disregarded, and 
determined to win her attention. It made a clumsy 
leap in the air and threw its huge body against her 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


35i 


with such force that for a second she staggered 
backward. “Down, Jasper! Down!” called a voice, 
sternly, from behind, whose tones she knew too 
well to mistake. Though she dreaded the meeting 
she preferred it rather than to exhibit any discour- 
tesy of manner. She laid her hand gently on the 
dog’s head and turned toward his master with a 
smile. 

“I am sorry, Miss Stewart,” he said, lifting his 
hat, “that Jasper has forgotten his manners. He 
seldom takes such liberties with ladies. I presume 
with you he considers himself a privileged charac- 
ter. He caught sight of you a long distance off and 
made a dash before I was aware of his intention.” 

His voice was ! clear and genial as usual, and he 
was smiling upon 1 her as if the same cordial rela- 
tions existed between them as of yore. 

“No harm done, be assured, Mr. Douglass. Jas- 
per is a dear fellow.” 

She looked him full in the face, and this time no- 
ticed a change there. He was smiling, but the half- 
cynical, half good-natured light she knew so well 
was gone. He struck his cane with a sort of ner- 
vous energy against the curb. 

“I hope,” he said after an embarrassed pause be- 
tween them, “that you do not think I intentionally 
sought this meeting. It should never have been, 
as well for my own sake as for yours if I could 
have forestalled it. I am going away tomorrow— 


35 2 


UNEXPECTED MEETING 


going down South — with a friend, so you will not 
have this experience a second time.” 

“I wish you a safe journey and — and a pleasant 
time,” she replied. 

There was just the faintest tremor in her voice. 
He noticed it. A mist came before his eyes, and al- 
most shut the vision of her fresh, young beauty 
from him. Then he cleared his throat of its sudden 
roughness and said: 

“Thank you. Come, Jasper, we must go back. 
Good morning, Miss Stewart. This is fine weather 
we are having now, isn’t it?” 

“Very,” she answered. “I am enjoying it im- 
mensely.” r I 

He lifted his hat and turned to re-enter the park. 
Jasper looked as though he did not approve of so 
short an interview. He stood quite still for a mo- 
ment, following with his eye the figure of his quon- 
dam friend. Douglass, too, stood and watched her, 
but with the hopeless, longing expression of one, 
who, beholding a life-boat depart, is left alone upon 
a sinking ship. And so again these two had passed 
each other on life’s sea. 

Phillip came up that evening to take Margaret 
to the theatre. She was especially glad of this op- 
portunity of being alone with him, for she was anx- 
ious to have him know what had passed between 
herself and Douglass since the evening when He had 
informed her of Douglass’ real character. Al- 
though he had been up twice since, at neither time 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


353 


had she felt sufficient control of herself to broach 
the subject. 

Margaret had planned to speak of the matter on 
her way home, but somehow the opportune mo- 
ment did not seem to come. She never knew Phil- 
lip to be so talkative, indeed he seemed to her ner- 
vously so. Whenever there was the slightest pause 
he appeared in feverish haste to start the conversa- 
tion on once more. She attempted several times 
to give it a more personal turn, but with each at- 
tempt her object was defeated, and it seemed al- 
most designedly. At last, a little piqued at his ap- 
parent indifference to a matter which she felt* con- 
sidering their intimate relations, should be of in- 
terest to him, especially as he himself had been 
the one to give the information, she desisted in her 
attempts. 

“I am afraid, Pearl, I shall not be able to get 
over very soon again,” he said, as they were near- 
ing home. “I will have lectures or work every 
night for some time now. I am sorry for your sake 
it will be so. I should like to take you out oftener: 
though, really, after all, I do not suppose you will 
suffer as far as that goes. You are a pretty popular 
young woman, I guess.” 

“I have plenty of invitations if that is what you 
mean. I do not accept them all, however. I do 
not care to go with everybody nor everywhere.” 

They were standing on the porch, and the light 
from the red lantern overhead fell upon her. Her 


354 


UNEXPECTED MEETING 


face had lost some of its natural rich coloring*, 
Phillip had thought when he first saw her in the 
evening. He wondered if she had 1 suffered much. 

“So you are not entirely won over to your new 
life then; not yet a devotee at Society's shrine?" 

“I thought you knew me better, Phillip," she 
said. “Is my nature so pliant, do you think that a 
few months could make me a new creature? Do 
you imagine that all the deepest longings of a soul 
could in so short a time be stifled or uprooted? 
This life is not for me, Phillip. It is for no one who 
is striving to attain. The whole atmosphere is one 
of insincerity. I would rather be born in the mean- 
est home with only half a chance to develop, yet be 
myself. O, the shame of it! never once to act from 
motives absolutely true and noble; to always say 
and do and be that which society may approve; to 
sell one's self bodv and soul for wealth and posi- 
tion." ? 

She placed one hand upon his arm uncon- 
sciously. He thrilled under the light pressure. A 
wild desire seized him to say — “Come, come, Mar- 
garet, my pearl, come to me! We will go together 
where nature, not art, where truth, not hypocrisy, 
may do their blessed work; where the Divine hand 
may shape as it will." 

Margaret, looking into his face, saw there a 
strange sternness, an expression in his eye she 
could not understand. She leaped to the conclu- 
sion that he felt a certain incogruity between her 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


355 


words and what seemed to him, when they met at 
social functions, pure enjoyment on her part. SI 
would show to him, prove to him that she would 
act as she had spoken. 

“I have made up my mind, Phillip, to go home. 
I am longing for the old place more and more every 
hour. I want to be there when spring sings her 
first song. I would not miss one note. I’ll leave 
you to the tender mercies of the Beechdale sirens, 
Phillip.” 

A ripple of laughter fell from between her parted 
lips. This last picture was irresistibly ludidrous 
to her; Margaret was so wholesomely, so entirely 
alive, that she could readily pass from one mood to 
another. But such passing was no more indicative 
of mutability of character than the constant shift- 
ing of the anger and laughter of the sea is a denial 
of the changeless and eternal calm of its fathom- 
less deeps. 

“You need not waste your time in Cloverd'ale 
with those pictures,” he answered, joining in with 
her mood. Then more seriously — “You know 
what I think about such things. A man, at least 
one who has even a sneaking notion of becoming 
something in this world, would not resign himself 
for many evenings to the tender mercies of a dozen 
or more frenzied mothers and silly daughters. A 
man will frequent such places only under three 
conditions: if he be a fool, a rogue, or a scribbler. 
I hope at least I am neither the first nor the sec- 


356 


UNEXPECTED MEETING 


and, and I cannot, though I should not be averse to 
it, lay claim to being the third.” And then they 
said good-night. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 


HOME AGAIN. 

FTER Margaret had decided that her 
return was now a matter of only a 
week or so that at latest, her spirits 
rose proportionately. The depression 
that had kept her so relentlessly in its 
grasp of laite seemed to be relaxing its 
hold. Her physical and 1 spiritual na- 
ture were gradually readjusting them- 
selves to the beauty and harmony of 
the outside world, an infallible proof of a normal 
condition of life. 

Mrs. Lansdowne and her daughters noticed the 
change and said, “Margaret, you are homesick and 
have tried to conceal it. You are glad to leave us!” 
to which Margaret gave instant denial. Phillip saw 
it also when he came to spend the last evening with 
her, and strangely enough — for lovers are illogical 
— took the roundabout way of explaining to his 
jealous heart, and concluded that an understanding 
had been reached between his cousin and Douglass. 
He went home more weary and heartsore than 
ever, and proceeded at once to indulge in that one 
luxury which misery so delights in — the contempla- 
tion of wounds and the employment of probing 
them more deeply. 



358 


HOME AGAIN 


Mrs. Lansdowne was, for one reason, extremely 
sorry to have Margaret go. She was fearful that 
as yet they had not obtained sufficient hold upon 
Phillip to have him at their beck and call unless 
Margaret were the drawing influence. At the same 
time, however, she realized that Margaret’s pres- 
ence was a constant menace to her matrimonial de- 
signs, because of the more than brotherly interest 
which she felt Phillip had for his cousin. 

“I wish you could stay a little longer, my dear,” 
she said one day when alone with her niece. “The 
girls would love to have you, too. Of course we 
cannot make it as gay for you as we could were we 
not in mourning, and our little trouble, too, has had 
a depressing influence upon us all.” Mrs. Lans- 
downe had now arrived at the point in her outraged 
feelings when she could allude to her youngest 
daughter’s escapade as “our little trouble.” Gossip 
had died down and society had ostracized neither 
herself nor her daughters in consequence. 

“I feel that father would like to have me home. 
Aunt Frances,” replied Margaret. “Remember, I 
am all he has. You have done everything to make 
my stay with you a pleasant and happy one. I 
truly appreciate every effort.” 

Mrs. Lansdowne drew her chair a little more 
closely. “Margaret, my dear, I have not mentioned 
that little matter to you since the discussion we had 
that dreadful morning. I have been, perhaps, too 
selfishly bound up in my own troubles to think of 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


359 


anything else. I see by the Herald that Malcolm 
Douglass has gone South. ,, She scanned Marga- 
ret's face intently to note the effect of her words. 
“Did you know it?” 

“I met him one morning a few days before he 
went. We happened to run against each other. 
He told me at the time he intended taking such a 
trip.” 

“I hoped, Margaret, you would have gotten over 
your strongheadedness. You are very unwise, my 
child. Such men, when they do settle down are 
preferable to' those who makei greater pretentions. 
I told the girls not to allude to the subject unless 
you yourself did so, You are of a peculiar tem- 
perament, and they are impulsive. I dread anything 
like a rupture in a family.” 

“I did what I felt was right, Aunt Frances. I 
have no regrets,” was the quiet, yet firm reply. And 
the subject was not approached again during the 
remainder of her stay. 

The day for her departure at last arrived. Yzabel 
and Fletcher drove to the station with her and Phil- 
lip was dbwn to say good-bye. Margaret's face 
grew radiant when she caught sight of his tall, stal- 
wart figure among the crowd. She ‘had been so 
afraid that something might detain him at the last 
moment, and she felt a lonesome feeling come over 
her at the thought of several months, perhaps more, 
elapsing before she should see him again. “Don't 
study too hard, Phillip,” she said, when he kissed 


360 


HOME AGAIN 


her good-bye, “and remember, father and I will be 
expecting you for your summer vacation. There is 
no air like the air of Cloverdale, you know. Good- 
bye, Yzabel; good-bye, Feltcher! ,> Then came the 
screech of the whistle, the last wave of the hand, 
the majestic sweep of the long train as it flashed 
out into the morning sunlight. 

Her eyes rested with delight on the surrounding 
hills and lowlands. Being country-bred, she began 
to count the weeks that must elapse before that 
soft, velvety green would, silently as the dew falls 
and as mysteriously, spread itself over the brown 
stubble and fallow ground. She saw here and there 
in the valleys as she passed stretches of wheat put- 
ting on a brighter tinge after their sturdy resistance 
to winter frosts. She remembered that the seed 
was being sown when she had passed on her way 
to Beechdale. Then she fell to thinking how long, 
how very long it was since she had left her simple, 
country home for the gilded pomp and parade of 
high life; of what Malcolm Douglass had said to 
her that first night they had met, of the glitter and 
splendor which seemed real, but had no substance. 

She was fast slipping away to the painful past 
when the train slowed up and stopped. The sud- 
den jar of the car brought her back to the present 
world of reality. She read on the signboard 1 — Bea- 
confield. The sun was riding on toward the hori- 
zon, and a few hours more would bring her to 
Singleton. Then another run and home! 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


361 


She looked! out of the window and saw a man, 
tall, awkward, sun-burned, with a child hugged 
close to his breast asleep. A second was clinging 
with one hand to its father’s trousers and holding 
a brilliant candy cane in its mouth with the other. 
In a moment a woman, wearing a hat bristling with 
as much artificial finery as she could well accomo- 
date, physically, on one head piece, came upon the 
scene. She grabbed the small boy sucking his 
candy cane and made a wild rush for the train. The 
man followed her leisurely. 

The incident was a typical one and representa- 
tive of rustic life. Though familiarity with such 
sights had not yet produced in Margaret's nature 
total disregard for the sad reality that gave rise to 
them, the grotesque in the situation also appealed 
to her. The effect was salutary. Her spirits rose 
with all the resiliency of youth, and it was a face 
flashing with health and joy that met the expectant 
eye of a tall, gray-haired man who was at the sta- 
tion when the train stopped to accommodate its 
one passenger to Cloverdale. 

“My Pearl, back once more,” exclaimed Way- 
land Stewart, folding his daughter to his heart. “I 
am glad, unspeakably glad, to have my treasure 
again. The old home has been lonely without its 
merry mistress.” 

They drove home through the keen, frosty air 
under the bright moon and countless stars, Pearl 
plying her father with questions as to all that had 


362 


HOME AGAIN 


happened during her absence, he answering with 
the brief, dry Yankee wit she so enjoyed. 

And what a royal welcome awaited her when she 
sprang from the carriage ! The door was instantly 
thrown open by Janet — Janet, hale, hearty smiling 
as ever. And when the first glad greeting was 
over she was proudly conducted to the dining room! 
where a feast fit for a queen was served. With 
Janet a welcome invariably resolved itself into a 
material manifestation, which in her mind was its 
truest interpretation. 

Pearl would have loved to talk until the wee 
sma’ hours. She had 1 become quite used now to 
such indulgences. But her father, in spite of an 
equally strong desire on his own part, insisted 
upon rest soon after her return, that she might be 
“his own fresh, wild flower, lifting its head with the 
morning light.” 


CHAPTER XL. 


FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 

T was not until the next evening that 
father and daughter found the oppor- 
tunity for which they longed — a heart- 
to-heart talk. After tea they went to 
the library and sat down before the 
blazing wood fire. 

“And so my daughter has returned, 
the same little country girl as she 
went/' he said, looking fondly at her. 

“You should not call me little, " she replied with 
affected censure in her tones. “Do you realize 
that I am five feet six, and have reached the ripe 
age of twenty? As for being still a country girl, 
however, I must answer guilty to the charge/' 

“Guilty? So it is a crime then!" His eyes were 
fairly dancing with the delight of this quid pro quo ; 
yet she felt the little sting that lay beneath the 
words. The blood leaped in an instant to her 
cheek. 

“I went to prove that it was not such," she an- 
swered. 

“Did you so prove it?" 

“To myself, yes, without doubt, to others in a 
measure; but, father, I found conditions that might 
be stamped criminal and not belie the name." 



364 


FATHER AND DAUGHTER 


He looked down at her in the grave, gentle man- 
ner she knew so well. 

“I have been afraid, very much afraid of late, 
that my flower was far too sumptuous a one to be 
kept in this secluded spot. I thought, perhaps, it 
might be better for it to bloom, in the larger gar- 
dens of life. Now that my flower has seen these 
gardens, if it yearns for them, I myself will trans- 
plant it, should it seem best. I have often felt, my 
daughter, during these last few years, that this 
home might be lonely and its pleasures very cir- 
cumscribed for a young girl abounding in health 
and aspirations, such as you possess. I was glad 
when you had the opportunity of seeing what men 
call the broader side of life. I felt that I might 
trust to the training you have received to see truly 
and choose wisely. My greatest desire in life is 
that you shall have all, all that may produce in you 
what is noblest, truest, loftiest, best. Yet this must 
be chosen by you, not by me. I have tried to lead 
you to the land flowing with milk and honey. You 
must go in and possess it .” 

“Father, I have a few confessions to make, and 
one is this — I believe now, as I look back, I did 
wish to try my wings. I will admit that there was 
creeping into my soul a feeling of impatience, al- 
most of contempt, I am afraid, for the uncouthness 
so often displayed around us. I began to feel for 
the first time a truth and justness in some of the 
common aspersions cast upon country folk, and at 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


365 


the same time I felt — was it an unpardonable pride 
that caused the feeling? — that we were different 
from most of them. I wished Aunt Frances to see 
that I, though a simple country girl, unacquainted 
with much of her social code, might yet be not un- 
presentable to her high cast friends. But I had 
still another motive in going and this was a more 
worthy one. I dreamed I might, in a so-called cul- 
tured community, find the remedy for the slow, dull, 
apathetic people of Cloverdale.” She paused. 

‘And did this intrepid humanitarian solve the 
problem?” he asked. 

“She found there an enslavement far, far greater 
than any she could have imagined. Ambition here 
is killed, there it kills. The result is the same — 
thralldom of the human soul.” 

Waylanri Stewart looked into his daughter’s 
face and read there the vague, unexpressed long- 
ings of his own youth, longings that had risen 
long hours wrestling with the great problems of 
life. In those hours he had felt the schism between 
man and God, he had felt, too, that insatiable 
craving for knowledge whose realization is but a 
nearer approach of the soul to its creator. Some- 
thing told him, however, that he was unfitted to 
cope with these problems in great world conflicts. 
His work as a reformer would have to be of the 
positive rather than negative sort, of the construc- 
tive, not destructive type; he would be true to him- 
self, and he believed with the poet that the noble- 


366 FATHER AND DAUGHTER 

ness which in other men lay sleeping, would rise in 
majesty to meet his own. Peace came at last to 
Wayland Stewart, but thoughts are immortal and 
must, when once born, work out their destiny. 
They were now springing up in another soul to 
which they had been transmitted; they were ap- 
pearing in this second generation with a yet more 
vigorous insistence to be carried to a consumma- 
tion. 

“And so?” he asked, with grave interest. She 
shook her head. 

“I do not know — yet. But there is something 
here, father,” placing her hand upon her breast, 
“that tells me life can never be the same inactive 
existence that it was before. So far, I believe my 
duty has consisted in being your dear companion, 
in soothing your loneliness, in taking mother’s 
place. Now, with this there comes to me a yet 
broader work — my duty to my fellow men, to those 
about me. I would wake them up to the fact that 
incomparable beauty is all about them, that knowl- 
edge is theirs for the taking, that the pitiful horde 
which they catch at so greedily is worth only what 
it brings in exchange; that he alone is rich whose 
soul is free; that education is not schools, nor re- 
ligion creeds; that he has neither who cannot im- 
part both. I believe, father, that others have felt 
this longing that I have. Many have felt the beau- 
tiful hills and valleys, God’s trysting place, to 
achieve; but if they succeed they do not return to 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


367 


tell the glad story. Father, tell me, how is it that 
you clung to this life?” 

“Because,” he answered, “I was a child of Nature 
above all else. I had, too, a sweet, brave, cultured 
woman by my side, who felt with me that truer, 
nobler lives might be lived here among the gardens 
of the world than in the centres of vice and vanity, 
and that if so blessed, we might bring our children 
up to live theirs also; so, I think, we have! so, I 
think, we have!” Waylatid Stewart placed his 
hand as if in benediction upon his daughter’s head. 

“Father,” said the girl, quickly, as though his 
last words had brought to her remembrance some- 
thing she intended him to share, “I have something 
else that I would have you know; first, because I 
never yet have had a secret from you, and, too, 
because I would have you feel how implanted in my 
soul has been the teachings of both my parents.” 
He settled back in his armchair to listen. She in- 
terpreted the movement and went on. 

“Do you recall, father, a Mr. Douglass, of whom 
I wrote?” She waited for his answer, perhaps to 
gain composure. 

“Yes.” 

“From the first time I met him I admired him. 
VvY had many interests in common, which natural- 
ly drew us together. His honest satire, too, amused 
me and his fine intellect charmed me. Yet, after 
weeks of such intimacy, I believe the relationship 
remained only a fascination, for I was surprised be- 


368 


FATHER AND DAUGHTER 


yond expression when suddenly at one of the 
dances to which he accompanied me, he gave me to 
understand that his attentions had, for a long time, 
meant far more than I dreamed they did.” 

“He was wealthy, one of the wealthiest men of 
Beechdaie, and was nobly descended. He moved 
in a circle, which I was sure, though it received 
me there on equal terms, would doubtless resent 
my right to be there permanently. His sister I 
knew to be a proud, heartless woman, whose wealth 
and ancient lineage was to her of paramount im- 
portance. For her brother to marry an unknown 
and obscure country girl would be a death stroke 
to all her ambitions. 

“I thought of all this — the awful consequences 
that might result from such an unequal union, un- 
equal in the world’s eyes, and to his appeals for 
an immediate answer, I responded that time must 
be given me to think. 

“But I had a yet graver reason for hesitancy 
than those I mentioned. In the brief time I had 
been at Beechdaie I had become aware that a 
man’s past life was of little or no interest. There 
was no moral standard to which a man must at- 
tain. Compliance with social decrees was the only 
arbitrary demand. Wealth and position weighed 
equally against selfishness and vice. How could I 
know that this man was different from others! I 
felt that I was confronting a great question, which 
for the first time, father, you could not solve for 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


369 


me. You had taught me the principles of truth, 
and I had now to apply them. 

T sent for Phillip in my perplexity. I told him 
all. I knew, father, that he had my welfare at 
heart as much as you.” Wayland Stewart moved 
his position for the first time since his daughter 
had begun her story. He seemed as if about to 
speak, then changed his mind and settled back cnce 
more in the cushioned depths of his chair. 

'To my horror — I think now that horror, rather 
than sorrow, filled my heart just then — I heard 
from Phillip a few words that revealed to me the 
real man with whom I had been associating on the 
most familiar terms. My mind was made up. I 
could hesitate no longer. I sent for him, and con- 
fronted him with the miserable truth. I tried to 
'make him understand that as a pure woman, I felt 
that he had humiliated me beyond measure in ask- 
ing me to become his wife, a relation which in 
God's sight could be one in name only. 

“He was utterly undone at my knowledge of his 
private life, and he seemed unable to comprehend 
its vital connection with our relations. I told him 
that all future intercourse beyond that which would; 
arise from mere acquaintanceship must cease. 

“We parted that night. I saw him once after- 
ward. We met by chance on the street. He said 
he was about to leave with some friend's for the 
South. 

“I, too, longed to get away from, it all — all the 


370 


FATHER AND DAUGHTER 


sham, the insincerity, the meaningless calls, the 
dress parade that filled the hours of each day and 
half the night. I wanted you and the dear, dear 
home. Indeed, father, I was sure that you had 
spoiled me absolutely for ever becoming a society 
butterfly.” She laughed, but Wayland Stewart 
thought he detected tears in the laughter. He 
feared the wound had been deeper than she herself 
was aware of. But it would heal in time. He 
knew her independent, rebounding nature too well 
to question that, so he only said: 

“I am proud of my daughter. She has the qual- 
ities that mark true American womanhood. Thank 
God! I believe there are many such helping to 
hold up the bulwarks of a tottering civilization. 1 ’ 

She put her fingers playfully upon his lips. 

“Not another word, sir; not another word, un- 
less you would make of me an arbitrary queen of 
the Clovers.” 

“Of such are the uncrowned queens,” he said, 
with a rapt look upon his face. “I have been great- 
ly blessed to have had in my home two such.” 

“Dear, dear mother,” said the girl, lifting her 
eyes where her father gazed upon the portrait of 
the beloved dead. 

And thus they sat a few sweet moments in ten- 
der silence, linked together there, the souls of the 
living with that of the dead. 


CHAPTER XLI. 


SETTLING DOWN AGAIN. 

HE first days after Pearl’s return 
seemed to pass all too quickly. She 
had the feeling that she had been away 
years, and she caught herself many 
times a day looking for great changes 
here and there. She went around 
through the house and grounds with 
all the pleasurable curiosity of one 
who for the first time was enjoying 
little while, however, sufficed for the 
strangeness to wear away, and Pejarl became little 
by little readjusted to her old surroundings, and 
with readjustment to the past came a sense of loss 
when any familiar object or face belonging to that 
past was missing. 

More and more as she settled down to her ac- 
customed habits and pursuits, she felt the loss of 
Phillip. She missed his handsome face and merry 
brown eyes at the table, and the good-natured con- 
troversies between him and her father. And she 
missed him even more when it was time to light 
the lamp in the cosy library, for how often of an 
evening had they three sat together reading aloud 
or discussing some pregnant question, of the day. 
She called to mind, with a pang of regret, now that 




372 SETTLING DOWN AGAIN 

it was all over, how very precious these hours had 
been to her. 

From time to time bright, chatty letters came 
from Phillip, telling of his work. He hinted, too, 
of the possibility of his enlistment in the hospital 
corps if war should break out between the Spanish 
and the Americans. And so the weeks passed by. 

Though Pearl's visit to Beechdale had not re- 
sulted in any unfavorable comparison between her 
own home and that of her cousins, Beechdale, 
with its indefinable charm and aesthetic apprecia- 
tion when brought into mental juxtaposition with 
Cloverdale. made the latter shrink often to very 
small dimensions. 

In her own home there had always been the 
spirit of innate gentleness and sincerity in compari- 
son with which the outward suavity and the dis- 
simulation so noticeable in the home of her rela- 
tives was as the pictured counterpart to the living, 
breathing form. Yet she had enjoyed the general 
air of good-breeding and the results of a liberal 
education among those whom she met. She felt 
the change in her situation on her return. Some- 
thing which had through the years heretofore been 
vaguely missed, now overpowered! her with the 
greatness of its lack. Gradually, these feelings 
took such possession of her as to demand intelli- 
gent interpretation. She began to realize to its 
full extent the gulf fixed between education and ig- 
norance, beween culture and uncouthness, also the 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


373 


loneliness of him that dwells at the farther end. 

Cloverdale was not inferior, perhaps, to other 
settlements of the same size and advantages. It 
boasted three churches, one Methodist and two 
Baptist, and a school, beside village privileges, in 
the way of saloon, postoffice and general all- 
around store. 

It might be remarked that plurality of churches 
did not argue over-development of piety, nor was 
a widespread preference for their peculiar doctrines 
indicated by the existence of two edifices in which 
some denominational beliefs were duly expounded. 

The two churchejS of one faith were distinguished 
between as the heretical and the orthodox. Some- 
time in the misty past, none of the rising gener- 
ation could tell exactly when, there had been some 
dispute, as to the interpretation of a certain clause 
in the articles of faith, no one now had any knowl- 
edge as to where the offending clause had hidden 
itself, though, of course, it was there, and doubt- 
less as bristling as ever. Those who did know 7 , 
had been at rest many years in the church yard, 
but the results of the dispute were still apparent 
in the two little sanctuaries which stood on either 
side of the road, directly opposite each other. 

The split had occured long before the Stewarts 
had come to the West. Pearl and her father had 
had many a hearty laugh over the fact that the of- 
fending church, though itself so absolutely unable 
to state the cause of the disaffection, was still al% 


SETTLING DOWN AGAIN 


374 

luded to as the '‘heretic church”; and, indeed, 
seemed to feel a certain inflation therefrom. 

The school house was a mile from where it 
should have been situated, if the convenience of 
the majority of its youthful patrons was consid- 
ered, and this solitary seat of learning opened and 
closed as the spirit moved that august body of 
Cloverdale, the board. As the majority of the 
afore-mentioned body were farmers of Cloverdale, 
the spirit in this connection was nothing less tyran- 
nical and erratic than the corps. 

When Wayland Stewart's daughter, now, for the 
first time, began to ponder deeply upon the social, 
spiritual and intellectual state of Cloverdale, she 
felt more and more assured of the crying needs in 
this little corner of the earth, where destiny had 
placed her. Her father's attitude had been one of 
silent example. She believed the time had come 
for action. | 

“If I might help them to see the glory of life!” 
was her passionate cry. But the words beat back 
upon her heart with a hopeless echo. Their spir- 
itual eyes were blinded; how could they see eternal 
things? They thought to find God only in 
churches; behold! He was in green earth, and 
fragrant air and crystal stream; in Him they lived 
and moved and had their being and knew it not. 
Ah! the tragedy of it. What could she do? What 
could she do? The answer came quite unexpect- 
edly, from a quarter not foreseen. 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


375 


She was starting one morning down the pike to 
call on Deacon Beverly’s wife, who had been ill for 
months. The farm house was a mile away, and 
she had covered about half the distance, when she 
met Amanda Haines’ stepson, a bright looking, 
sturdy little fellow of twelve. He had a lunch 
basket in his hand. 

“Good-morning, Ben,” she said, stopping; “how 
are you?” 

“G’morin’,” answered the boy, half-bashfully. 

“Going to school, I suppose.” 

“No, ’m,” he replied, emphatically, this time lift- 
ing a pair of flashing brown eyes to hers, without 
embarrassment. 

“School does not close for a week yet, does it?” 

she asked. 

“I ain’t goin’ no more, long’s Hendry’s teacher. 
I hate him!” He stamped his foot furiously on the 
gravel, till it sank an inch or two. 

“I learnt my lesson as good as some of the oth- 
ers, but he got a pick on me. If anything went 
wrong, he licked me fur it, so I left. If I’d been 
bigger, I’d a thrashed him before I went! His 
father don’t know nothin’, pa says. ’Cause he 
went to the city school he thinks he can fly it over 
us — but he can’t.” 

“I am sorry, Ben, you have had this trouble. 
School lasts such a short time. It seems too bad 
to miss a week.” 

“Father said he used to go only three months,” 


376 


SETTLING DOWN AGAIN 


answered the boy, sturdily, as if he had now fur- 
nished sufficient justification for his action. 

“But wouldn't you like to learn a great deal 
more, so that you could read lots and lots of 
books ?’’ 

“Father kin read. He kin read as much as he 
wants ter. Father's goin' to war if there is one, he 
says. I'd like to go. I'd rather be a soldier than 
go to school. I’d like to be captain and have 
Hendry my soldier. He's a coward, and if he run 
I'd shoot him dead!" The boy's face looked sud- 
denly fiendish. The cruel, hard lines around the 
childish mouth were so pitifully out of place. 

An expression came into the girl's face beside 
him, an expression of shuddering repulsion min- 
gled with unutterable pity. She seemed to look 
down, down into the very depths of that poor, re- 
stricted child soul, and the horror of the sight froze 
upon her face; then there leaped into those won- 
derful changing eyes of hers the ineffable tender- 
ness like to that which lighted the face of the sin- 
less Nazarene as he looked, centuries before, upon 
human ignorance and passion. Her eyes seemed 
to Ben to glow like fire and to swim in a midst of 
tears. He threw out his sun-burned hands to- 
wards her, and the basket fell to the ground. 

“'Don’t look at me," he cried piteously. “What'd 
I do? What’d I do?" 

She came closer to him. 

“Ben, don’t you know it is wrong, very wrong 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 377 

to want to kill any one? Do you think it is that 
which makes a good soldier? Good soldiers do 
not slay because they delight to.” Then she began 
to see how! difficult a thing it was to make this 
child-mind grasp the true meaning of patriotism. 
To him it meant an opportunity to slay an enemy. 
That was all. 

She began again. “If we should have war, the 
people of this country will be compelled to fight 
because some of God’s people, away in another 
country, are being imprisoned and starved and 
treated in a most cruel way. We must make them 
stop their cruelty. Do you think, Ben, if you 
could kill Mr. Hendry, you would then be a good 
soldier? A soldier should be brave and true; he 
should always think of other’s wrongs, not his 
own.” 

The child ventured to look at her once more. 
This time his eyes were filled with a strange awe 
and reverence, a vague subconscious questioning. 
He stooped suddenly to pick up his basket. 

“Ben,” asked the girl, “would you like to come 
to my house every morning, and let me be vour 
teacher?” 

She was not prepared for the prompt reply. 

“You bet I would! Could I have a Fourth read- 
er, like Sam Spence’s. He’ll sell his for thirty 
cents.” 

“You need not bring any books at first, Ben. 
We will have a different way of keeping school. I 


SETTLING DOWN AGAIN 


378 

will talk and you will listen. Would you like 
that?” 

The boy nodded his head and laughed — a happy 
sound it was — and started on his way across the 
field. He looked back once and shouted through 
his hands: ‘Til be there, sure.” Then she lost 
sight of his little fleeing figure. 

When Pearl returned from her call on the dea- 
con’s wife she was happier than she had been for 
days. The strange, indefinable longings to do 
something for those about her — to help them to 
catch a glimpse of the beauties which she saw, and 
to hear at least a few of the wonderful harmonies 
which she heard — were gradually shaping them- 
selves into practical conceptions. As all hypersensi- 
tive, quickly responsive natures are, Pearl Stew- 
art was an idealist and therefore a castle builder. 
Ten minutes had hardly elapsed after her interview 
with Ben before she saw in her mind’s eye that 
which would take years if not generations to accom- 
plish, but she had seen the vision and henceforth 
through her whole life it would be her guiding star. 

That evening as she and her father were together, 
Pearl turned to him in her impulsive way and said: 

“Father, I want to talk with you!” 

“I shall be glad, very glad, to listen,” he replied. 

“I want to begin by asking questions.” 

“A most womanly desire, my daughter; now be- 
gin your catechism.” 

“Father, do you not think that soul blindness 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 379 

and soul deafness are the most terrible of all afflic- 
tions? Do you understand? Do I express my 
idea clearly? Do you believe that?” The multi- 
plicity of questions indicated to him her tensely 
wrought condition. 

“I do believe it!” he said, firmly. 

“I suffer because it is so. Is that strange or as 
it ought to be?” she asked, earnestly. 

“It is as it should be, yet — ” he laid his hand lov- 
ingly on her head — “yet I am selfish. I would 
not have you suffer.” 

“It is because I suffer that I will attain. It is 
God’s way,” came the quick response. “I must 
offer the world an equivalent for what I have re- 
ceived. I must, I must\ ,y 

“You are right; the universe will demand to the 
utmost farthing. It is an absolute but just mas- 
ter. Correlation of forces is its supreme law.” He 
looked at her fixedly a moment. “But how would 
you repay?” he asked, profoundly interested in this 
young, independent thinker. 

“By telling others the story of life that has come 
to me — imperfectly, perhaps, but it has come.” 

Wayland Stewart looked at his daughter in a 
puzzled way. It was just a little hard for him to 
comprehend her. It was an impossibility for him 
to anticipate her. 

"You would never guess my plan, dear, so you 
need not try,” she said, playfully. “It is this— just 
now. I simply want a chance to talk. I would 


3 8o 


SETTLING DOWN AGAIN 


like permission from that austere board to conduct 
a night school for — let us say, two months.” 

‘‘And who is to be the teacher ?” he asked, smil- 
ing. 

“I am, and you are to assist when you have the 
time. I want pay for my services, but the money 
will go to buy books and magazines for the com- 
ing winter. I want it to be under the auspices of 
the board to give it eclat. See?” She looked 
pleadingly into his kindly gray eyes. 

Wayland Stewart had great faith in his daugh- 
ter’s schemes, but he had to confess that this one 
quite took away his breath. Yet he did not have 
the heart to dash her hopes. 

“Your assistant will do what he can,” he replied, 
with a twinkle in his gray eye. 

“Thank you! That is all for tonight.” She 
took up a book which lay open on his knee. 

“Now, let us talk with Mr. Kipling, please/’ 


CHAPTER XUI. 


DAYS OF PEACE. 

HEY were halcyon days for Pearl, 
those days of early spring. Nothing 
seemed to daunt her spirit. Even 
when her father told her that he re- 
ceived little encouragement from the 
board for the contemplated summer 
school, she went on planning just the 
same as if the idea of defeat had no 
place in her calculations. 

“Well,” she answered, brightly, after he had an- 
nounced the results of the meeting, “if they think 
they are too poor for the luxuries of education, we 
will have to bring them to a better understanding 
of themselves and their resources. You and I, 
father, will pay for the experiment, that is all. We 
will try to show them that the value of money is 
only in its power to purchase that which will aid in 
the betterment of life,, that will give us a higher 
standard of living. My task is very clear to me. I 
must do my little part in elevating the character of 
the wants of those about me. 

Wayland Stewart was quite willing to let his 
daughter follow the dictates of youthful enthusi- 
asm, and, not only this, but he determined to aid 



382 


DAYS OF PEACE 


her in every way possible. So, within a fortnight, 
the white school house was opened and Pearl made 
it as attractive as she could. Pictures hung on the 
walls, flowers in plenty were piled high upon the 
desk and a scarlet rug covered the bare platform. 
Six came the first evening. Afterward the num- 
bers increased, and among those present were sev- 
eral of the young men and girls who long ago had 
laid aside their books for the sterner duties of life. 

And in the first joy of her undertaking her heart 
turned instinctively to Phillip as the only one be- 
side her father who could understand the great 
moving force within that was impelling her on — 
on — on! She sat down one evening after her re- 
turn from the school and wrote him. The letter 
was a sort of safety valve for her highly-wrought 
feelings. 

“Dear Phillip: Not if you were to guess forever 
would you have even the very faintest idea as to 
the latest adventure of your country cousin. Shall 
I let you guess, just to give you some mental exer- 
cise, or shall I break the suspense and tell you at 
once? Well, you know my naturally hard-heart- 
ed procedure in such matters, and this time I will 
break my record and — break the news. I am a 
school ‘marnT — absolutely; a real, live school 
‘marm/ And now to explain the enigma. 

“It is just this: I want to try at least to awaken 
some of the people of Cloverdale out of their sleep 
— to have them see what a glorious, glorious world 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


383 


they are living in. Now, Phillip, don’t be afraid 
that I am going to proclaim myself a twentieth cen- 
tury crusader, and cry aloud in the streets, for I 
am going to do nothing of the sort. I am only 
going to give out what has been given me, and in 
a way all my own. 

“1 have asked myself hundred’s of times these 
burning questions; why is it that we are willing to 
resign ourselves to the poorest educational advan- 
tages, ignorant preachers, worst of doctors — in 
short, the cast-off talent of every kind? Why are 
we willing to remain in the same weary, old groove 
of life indefinitely? 

“What is needed, Phillip, is aspiration, a longing 
for something beside additional acres. But how 
can this great end be accomplished, if every one 
who has, by some good fortune, attained this bet- 
ter understanding, spreads his wings of aspiration 
and soars away, never to return? 

“You were fearful, Phillip, (now, don’t deny it) 
and so was father that I would never be quite satis- 
fied again in my narrow sphere. My narrow 
sphere! Why it is wide as the universe. I feel 
rather, that I was imprisoned during those months 
at Beechdale. What a long letter I have written, 
and I have not told nearly all I meant to. But I 
must leave a little untold, so we can have some of 
those old talks togther when you come home. 
Then you shall know all, just how I mean to work 


384 


DAYS OF PEACE 


out the problem of, yes, my salvation. It must 
be so. Your devoted cousin, 

“MARGARET.” 

The April days flew by on golden wings. The 
school still kept its doors open, and one day Far- 
mer Fortney came to Way land Stewart and said: 

“You and your daughter are doing a good work. 
My Frank and Lettie never took so much interest 
in book learning before. They're' beginning to 
think quite smart about education. It's more what 
a school ought to be than any ever I knew. I 
never had much education myself, but I allow if I 
had, I would be better off — a better farmer, per- 
haps. And, say, I want to give you a little some- 
thing beside talk. We all ought to have a pride in 
this thing. It is keeping some of our boys from 
the village saloon. I ’lowed to Farmer Perry the 
other night that a ‘libery’ would be a right smart 
improvement here.” 

“Isn’t it just splendid?” cried Pearl when her 
father repeated verbatim Mr. Fortney’s conversa- 
tion, and then she flung her arms about her fath- 
er’s neck and kissed him as frantically as though 
he had been the actual donor, instead of the bearer 
of a gift. 

“It isn’t so much the money as it is that we seem 
to be waking up to our privileges,” she exclaimed. 

This happened at noon, and in the afternoon, 
still full of the happy plans for the future, she took 
a book and went out to sit a while under the newly 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


385 


garbed trees, to read and' to breathe in the throb- 
bing life of a spring day. Songsters of the wood- 
land choir flew back and forth, whistling to each 
other. The fresh breezes fanned her cheeks. A 
book of poems lay in her lap. She turned the 
leaves aimlessly. 

“I cannot read,” she murmured. “All that is 
written in the book is here, here around me.” Then 
a fragrant zephyr, more venturesome than the oth- 
ers, swept over the open volume and disclosed a 
letter hidden in its leaves. She knew the writing. 
“One of Phillip's letters,” she said, and instantly 
took it up. 

Phillip's letters were common property of Pearl 
and her father. It made no difference to which 
one they were directed. She supposed either her 
father or she had been reading it, and had care - 1 
lessly left it in the book. She loved to go over 
Phillip's letters. They were always so chatty, so 
full of interest. She did not even turn the letter, 
but began to read on the page open before her. 
She went a few lines and then stopped short. She 
stared at the words with wide open eyes. All her 
nonchalance vanished instantly. Could this really 
be Phillip's letter! She turned to the opposite page 
and read the signature: 

“Your devoted nephew, 
“PHILLIP VALE.” 

Then she re-read the words that had so strange- 
ly caught her eye. 


386 


DAYS OF PEACE 


“My Dear Uncle, I know that your greatest de- 
sire, as you told me before I came away, was that 
Pearl and I might some day be united in marriage. 
I have told you that I love her more than my life, 
and — paradoxical as this may seem, it is for this 
reason that I give her up. She cares for me only 
as a brother. I am now sure of this; before I only 
feared it to be so. For my sake, never even hint 
to her of your wish in the matter, or of my real 
feeling toward her. God makes marriages, not 
man.” 

She sat, as if fascinated by the words before her. 
She felt as one might if given suddenly the power 
to look within another’s heart and to read there its 
inmost secrets. 

“Phillip loves me ! Loves me ! and I have never 
dreamed it. Ah! Phillip, my brother is diead.” A 
suspicious quiver played upon her lips, a suspicious 
sparkle gleamed upon her lashes. 

To her, Phillip had been all that the word 
“brother” could imply; he had been her companion, 
her sympathizer, her guide. Now old things had! 
passed away, and behold, all had become new. In 
one brief span of time the old tie had been dis- 
solved and another had taken its place. The old 
relations could never again exist, for the attitude 
had changed. 

A strange feeling of loneliness crept over her. 
Could she meet him ever again with the same joy- 
ous freedom, the warm impulsive kiss of old? She 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


387 


told herself “never, never again.” She shrank, too, 
from the very idea of acquainting her father with 
her discovery, and she wondered at the feeling, for 
she called to mind no such recoil when telling him 
of Douglass’ affection for her. 

Whether the letter had been written before or 
since her return, she concluded it had been thought- 
lessly left in the volume. The book was one which 
her father, as well as she, often read, and sooner or 
later he would find the letter. IShe would try to 
put the incident from her mind, as she was putting 
the letter from her view. 

She took the book into the house and placed it 
back upon the shelf. But Pearl was one strangely 
and deeply affected by even the little incidents in 
life. Every event, however trivial, it seemed, was 
to her but another link forged into the chain of 
destiny. She raised her eyes involuntarily to the 
book holding somewhere within its silent pages the 
great heart secret of a young life, and her soul 
bowed before it, as 1 it bowed before the revelation 
of the great mysteries of life. She felt it the great- 
est honor that could be besowed upon a woman — 
this love of a true man, and the one crown which 
a woman wears, than which there is no richer. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 


TROUBLESOME THOUGHTS. 

F it were possible to tuck away trouble- 
some thoughts in a secluded nook of 
the brain, that they might not come 
out to harass us so perpetually, how 
much happier, concceivably, all of us 
would be. As persistently, however, 
as Pearl tried to banish the idea of the 
newly discovered relations between 
herself and Phillip, just so persistently 
did it spring out of its hiding place to disquiet her. 
If she went to the library, though, on entering her 
mind was intent on other things, like a phantom 
the fatal letter would glide before her mental vision. 
By and by, instead of seeming to see the written 
sheet, she began to hear the words as if uttered by 
Phillip’s own voice, at her side, and the voice 
pained her. for it was always sad and hopeless to 
her ear. 

One morning, disturbed more than usual by 
these fancies, she went out to take her customary 
walk. Almost aimlessly she took her way through 
the meadow. She stopped where towered a 
mighty oak — her father’s pride and her own ad- 
miration. It had doubtless made a sheltered home 
for its feathered inhibitors during a century or 




A MODERN PATRICIAN 


389 


more. One bright plumaged bird sat all alone 
upon a branch above her head. It gave a long, 
low plaintive note, as if calling for its companion. 
Pearl listened for the answering trill. None came. 
The little songster sent forth a longer, more ur- 
gent call; again, and yet again it was repeated. She 
felt suddenly as if she knew the yearning in its tiny 
breast — its disappointment. So natural is it for 
us to interpret all nature by our own heart beat. 
She tried to laugh at herself for so romancing and 
walked on more briskly, but birds and winds and 
perfumed air seemed to whisper, “Phillip,” to her 
listening ear. 

She had not been a woman if the knowledge of 
Phillip's love for her, a love so pure and true, did 
not administer a little to her sense of pridte; yet she 
was not less a woman for the fact. She shrank 
intuitively from the thought that she had once been 
so near offering up the holy and pure affection of 
her heart upon an altar drenched in polluted and 
forbidden oblations. The humiliation she suffered 
in consequence was, in a measure, lessened by the 
knowledge of Phillip's nolple, unselfish affection for 
her. His character had never stood out in such 
grand, incomparable proportions as it did now 
against the black background of the experiences 
during those months at Beechdale. 

A nature less responsive to every subtle influ- 
ence would not have been touched so mightily, per- 
haps, by simple contrasts. Some can look upon 


39 ° 


TROUBLESOME THOUGHTS 


deformities with perfect equanimity, others have 
the very depths of their being stirred, and are 
changed forever. When Pearl returned to her 
home that morning she was not quite the same girl 
as when, a few hours before, she had strolled from 
its doors. A bird's thrill had been the delicate in- 
strument in Nature's hand to stir within her breast 
the first soft harmonies that lay there ready for the 
master hand of Love. 

The days passed on, the sweet, impetuous and 
changeful April d'ays when all the earth lies) smiling 
in her resurrection beauty. Then suddenly, one 
morning, amid the peace, the beauty and the joy, 
came a sound that sent a thrill of horror through 
the land. Woman turned pale and felt, as it were, 
the shadow of death falling across their doorways, 
and the young lover, with a strange pain tugging 
at his heart, thought ol her whom he hoped to 
make his wife one day, and with a stifled sob, 
prayed for strength, strength! 

But these were the sights for angels to see and 
to drop a pitying tear. 

To human eyes it was quite otherwise. The 
land had gone mad for joy. The Stars and Stripes 
flaunted its gorgeous folds to the breeze. The 
bells of every city, town and) village rang out their 
exultant notes. The passionate indignation that 
had been smouldering for months in the hearts of 
seventy millions of people, became strangely and 
suddenly transmitted into an emotion that found 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


39 1 


outward expresssion in a delirium of shouts that 
rent the quivering air. The news that justice was 
at last to grapple with tyranny flashed from sea to 
sea and from lakes to welcoming gulf. 

The word reached Cloverdale a little after noon. 
Pearl had waited in vain for her pupil, who, up to 
this day, had faithfully kept his part of the compact 
between them, by coming to her every morning. 
Toward noon she went to the village for mail, and 
found Ben and his father outside the postofflce, 
awaiting news from Singleton. 

The child, with several others, was perched on a 
row of empty kegs. Ben was tooting away on a 
rather banged tin horn and knocking his bare 
brown legs against the keg to keep time with the 
music. 

“I looked for you a long while, this morning, 
Ben,” said Pearl, smiling at him. 

“I would have came, but I wanted to go with 
father to hear about the war.” He waited for her 
reply with an air of defiance, as if trying to prepare 
himself to meet any reprimand on her part. 

“Ben, you should) say, T would (have come.’ 
Don’t you remember? I don’t want my pupil to 
forget his lessons.” 

She put her hand under his chin and lifted his 
face playfully to hers. Not one word of anger 
from her lips! Hendry would have thrashed him, 
he thought. 

‘Til try to remember,” he answered, humbly, let- 


39 2 


TROUBLESOME THOUGHTS 


ting the tin horn fall in a quite unmilitary fashion 
at his side. ‘Til come tomorrow, sure. I say — 
you're not mad, are you?" 

“Of course, I am not, Ben. I missed you, be- 
cause we have such pleasant times together, that 
is all.” 

Then they smiled at each other — the girl and the 
child — as if they thoroughly understood. Pearl 
turned to go to the postoffice. Ben slid down from 
his keg and stood before her. 

“Let me run in and get your letter, won't you?” 

Pearl recognized the child’s desire to show his 
gratefulness to her for not reprimanding him. Per- 
haps, too, there was a dawning sense of his own 
injustice in harboring such a thought against her. 
She felt a thousand! times repaid for all the weeks 
of patient plodding to find in his heart this evi- 
dence of sweetness. Ben was not winsome by na- 
ture. 

“All right, Ben!” she answered, “and here are 
two letters I wish mailed. Thank you.” 

As she stood waiting there w T as a commotion 
within the store, and then she heard the sonorous 
tones of Bud Haines. “War's declared. The Pres- 
ident's signed at last! I hope I'll have a chance 
to knock a few of those Spanish devils out!” She 
saw Ben, his eyes ablaze with excitement, take his 
battered tin horn and rush down the wooden steps 
at the heels of a tall, brawny farmer, who leaped on 
his horse and clattered down the road to the near- 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


393 


est church, there to ring out the news as far as 
bells would carry it. 

Ben was so excited that he had forgotten to ask 
for the mail. The storekeeper came out and held 
up tw T o letters and nodded toward Pearl. She made 
her way through the knot of excited, gesticulating 
loungers. 

There was an air of general all-around satisfac- 
tion on their faces, as though the news just re- 
ceived were tidings of some, long anticipated good 
fortune, instead of the deathknell to thousands. It 
was natural, she knew, this overpowering demon- 
stration. There seemed to be so absolutely lack- 
ing all comprehension of the pain, the agony that 
must surely follow. But the women would com- 
prehend, God pity them. Of that she had no 
doubt. 

Busied with such thoughts she had almost for- 
gotten the letters she held. Now she examined 
them more closely as she went back toward home. 
One was for her father, the other was from New 
York and addressed to herself. 

She had no friend there of whom she knew. She 
turned the letter over and over, curiously, in her 
hand. There is a certain fascination to most people 
in delaying the gratification of one’s own curiosity. 
As she looked at it a peculiarity in the writing, the 
shaded down stroke of the letters and the heavy 
cross line of the t’s sent an uncomfortable idea 
through her brain. She dallied no longer, but tore 


394 


TROUBLESOME THOUGHTS 


it open. She turned the sheets over to find the sig- 
nature. She had been correct in her conjecture. 
At the close of the second page, written in bold, 
firm hand, was the name — Malcolm Douglass. Her 
heart gave a sickening throb. 

She had tried! so persistently to push from her 
all the bitter memories of those last weeks at 
Beechdale and they had! receded farther and farther 
into the recesses of the past. It was now only very 
seldom that she caught herself giving free reins to 
such forbidden thoughts. Yet at this moment they 
bore down upon her with irresistible power — all the 
varying and conflicting emotions of those days — 
the happiness which had been half pain; the pride 
which had been half humiliation; the anger which 
had been half pity. So little, after all, does the fan- 
cied control of ourselves amount to! 

Trembling in every limb she sat down by the road- 
side. How had he dared to address her, she asked 
herself, angrily, after all that had passed between 
them. Why, why had she ever opened the letter? 
She reproached herself for her stupidity. 

After the first few moments of passionate out- 
break, however, she began to think. Her innate 
sense of justice came to the rescue. She felt that 
she had jumped to certain conclusions and perhaps 
without any warrant. Her surmise of its contents 
might be entirely incorrect. She should, at least, 
give to him the) benefit of the doubt until she had 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


395 


proved the contrary. With cold, nervous fingers 
she opened the letter a second time and read: 

“My Friend: 

“Pardon me if I take a liberty when I venture to 
call you friend. You said once (perhaps, you may 
remember) that I might consider you so. You will 
be surprised, it may be indignant, at my presump- 
tion in addressing you after what has passed be- 
tween us. But something impels me to it, as if this 
were the last time it would be in my power to do so. 

“I have joined the Rough Riders, which accounts 
for my presence in this city. If war is declared, 
except for an indefinable, yet ever-present sadness 
that mingled with the sweet calm of the country- 
side as it did with the stir of the crowded mart, 
which now seems inevitable, I go at once to be in 
the thick of the fray. No, as you once told me, I 
have not lived for you nor for any other true, pure 
woman; now all that remains is to die for you and 
for my country. Family pride is still the ruling 
force of my destiny. If it were not for that I would, 
long before this, have rid the world of my unworthy 
self. 

“I confess that in some respects I am a coward 
(I would have repudiated such a charge once), for 
I feel no longer able to contemplate the wreck 
which I have made of life, nor to look on the goal 
that I failed to reach. Better, yes, a thousand times 
better, never to have been given the fleeting vision 


396 TROUBLESOME THOUGHTS 


of Elysian fields unless there is also the power to 
forget that we beheld them! 

“I think I may, at least, be a good fighter, for 
danger will be sweet to me, and one careless of 
death will never give his back to the foe. Someone 
must die. I will take care that it shall not be the 
other fellow. I feel this my only chance yet remain- 
ing to honor my family, to serve my country and 
to partially wipe out the insult I offered to the only 
true and noble woman I ever met. Perhaps (if fate 
is kind to me) the soldier dying under a tropic 
sun will not appear quite so infamous in your mem- 
ory as the presumptuous aristocrat who dared to 
offer you his black and craven heart. Do not be 
afraid that I will take the liberty of addressing you 
the second time. I shall not repeat the offense. Of 
that rest assured. 

"And now God bless you, and may some one, 
good and true and' noble as yourself, win the love 
of which I was not worthy. 

"Sincerely, 

"MALCOLM DOUGLASS.” 
Park Hotel, New York. 

She put the letter back in its envelope, but not 
angrily. She could only feel a great pity for the 
man who had so shipwrecked life and who even 
now had such distorted views of things that he 
deemed reckless fighting under the Stars and 
Stripes an undisputed honor to family name; and 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


39 7 


death under an alien sky for the love of a woman, 
true patriotism. 

She rose from her seat. As she did the wild, dis- 
cordant scream of a child’s voice fell on the quiet 
air. Ben was the transgressor. He was tearing to- 
ward home. He had his tin horn still held tightly 
in his hand, and at intervals he sent forth a loud 
note or two from its rusty throat. He caught sight 
of Pearl and stopped a moment. 

“Father’s goin’ to war,” he shouted joyously. 
“He says he’ll send us lots of money and I’m goin’ 
to buy a real soldier cap and have brass buttons on 
my new coat.” 

Then he dashed on past her to tell mother. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 


REALIZING. 

EARL made the most of the intense in- 
terest in national affairs, an interest 
which burned as brightly in the hearts 
of the youth of Cloverdale as it did in 
the breasts of those nearer the great 
palpitating centers of activity. She 
persuaded her father to give some talks 
on American History, and made the 
reading-tables bright with the illus- 
trated magazines and papers she had procured. 

It was marvelous how many subjects put on new 
life when presented in connection with the vital and 
absorbing question of the time. The attendance at 
their evening circles began to increase rather than 
to diminish. 

Farmer Brunt, one of the members of that most 
skeptical board, lifted Pearl to the topmost pinnacle 
of joy by exclaiming one day: 

“I declare, your scheme is working better than I 
'lowed it would. Can't keep our Rob away. I 
won't begrudge giving you a spec when you need 
it. W'll have to have better teaching here next 
winter, even if it takes a bit more." 

Pearl was so absorbed by her work that she 



A MODERN PATRICIAN 


399 


hardly realized how long a time had elapsed since 
they had heard from Phillip, though thoughts of 
him were very often with her. One day, however, 
the mail brought a letter from him. He said noth- 
ing of his arrangements for the summer or even ex- 
pressed a hope that he would be with them. She 
noticed the omission, and so did her father. But 
each assigned different reasons for the failure. Pearl 
felt sure that, as matters stood between them, he 
had decided) not to return where reminders of old 
pleasures might give only present pain. Wayland 
Stewart reasoned otherwise. “I wonder whether 
that boy has taken it into his head to summer un- 
der a torrid sky instead of in the cooling shades of 
Cloverdale?” he remarked. 

“Phillip go to war? Why father !” exclaimed the 
girl, “he will not graduate until May, you know.” 

A sickening feeling of approaching disaster came 
over her. The hand resting on the arm of her 
father’s chair trembled slightly. She wondered just 
what reason he had for surmising that Phillip 
would volunteer. Knowing as he did of the shadow 
that rested on Phillip’s heart had he come to the 
conclusion that sorrow would be the impelling 
power toward such an act? She resented the fact 
that such a suspicion should be cast upon him. She 
could not endure to think that Phillip would ever 
act except from principle. He was not a coward, 
she told herself; not one to refuse to work out his 
life’s destiny because of a single disappointment. 


400 


REALIZING 


however bitter. Yet the very energy with which 
she repudiated any unworthy motive to him seemed 
to bring into existence counter-thoughts, and she 
ended by harboring the suspicion which she had so 
vainly disclaimed to herself a few moments before. 

In Cloverdale the days came and went much as 
other April days had come and gone before them 
Too many farewells were being said during these 
days not to leave the air heavy with the weight of 
woe. 

Pearl sent in answer to Phillip’s letter one of her 
own characteristic replies, expressing the hope that 
he would be with them soon. 

“Do you remember, Phillip,” she wrote toward 
the close, ‘‘those dear, old, shady woods back of 
the wheat field? They are so beautiful this spring! 
I believe they have never been so enchanting be- 
fore — and the blue-bells have been so thick! You 
made a wreath of them last year and crowned me 
queen. You might have crowned a million queens 
this time. What fun we had that day! 

“The April rains have filled the brook until it 
seems a river; and the stepping stones you threw in 
to see if I would dare to leap across are covered 
up. 

She knew with feminine intuition that it was such 
allusions to the past that would touch the very heart 
strings of the man who read them. It was a pen 
picture of herself she had given, though so ingen- 
iously done that at first the glory of the woods and 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


401 


frolic of the brook seemed the all-important fea- 
tures in the sketch. 

She waited almost a week in pleasurable excite- 
ment, and then her trips to the village began to 
grow less frequent, as day after day passed and no 
letter came. She felt mortified at the thought that 
her little device had not succeeded. She was 
haunted, too, by the fear that Phillip had seen 
through her innocent subterfuge. 

One bright morning she concluded to see what 
a mad gallop over the country would do to lessen 
her unrest. For the first time since teaching Ben 
the work had seemed to drag. The sound of his 
voice reciting the multiplication tables seemed to 
come from a region far beyond the limits of the 
room where they had been sitting. She was re- 
lieved when the lessons were over, and inside of fif- 
teen minutes she stepped into her riding habit, had 
saddled Dolly and was off. 

She w r as tempted sorely to go to the village to see 
whether a letter might not have come for her this 
morning. Even Dolly turned her head in that di- 
rection, as if divining her mistress' thoughts. 

“No, no, Dolly, not to the village/' she said, with 
a little determined look on her face. “If he does not 
wish to write we'll not trouble ourselves to call for 
letters that aren't there." Dolly responded to the 
gentle pull of the rein and turned in the opposite di- 
rection. 

The day was so fine she concluded to go to 


402 


REALIZING 


Bridgeport, a distance of four or five miles, to visit 
a friend. She had told Janet that such might be her 
destination. 

It was late in the afternoon when Dolly, with her 
mistress walking beside her, came slowly up the pike 
toward home. The girl’s cheeks were as red as the 
bit of scarlet ribbon at her throat. She had taken 
off her hat and had hung it over one horn of the 
saddle; the hand that rested on the bridle was hold- 
ing a hugh bunch of blue-bells. The afternoon 
sun glinted on her glorious hair. Every movement 
of the erect young figure was one of unconscious 
grace. She was the realization of the poet’s rustic, 
nut-brown maid; at least so though a young man 
concealed behind some wayside bushes just beyond 
the gate. 

The watcher raised himself and peered through 
the green foliage. When she reached the gate she 
halted. 

“We’ll stop here a moment, Doll. I believe I’m 
tired. Poor Doll! eat some grass. Home fodder is 
always best, isn’t it? I’ll fix my flowers together.” 

She sat down on a huge boulder that guarded the 
gateway, and as she worked sang snatches of a 
song — one which she and Phillip used often to try 
together. A low whistle came softly in to accom- 
pany her. She stopped and looked around her cu- 
riously; then she started up the strain once more. 
Again came the clear, low whistle— this time a little 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


403 


stronger. It seemed quite near to her. She jumped 
up from her seat. 

“There must be spirits around, Doll,” she 
laughed. Then her eyes caught a movement behind 
the bushes. She started toward them. A tall 
young man sprang up and confronted her. 

“Phillip !” she exclaimed in half-glad, half-startled 
tones, and let her flowers fall in one blue tangled 
mass about her. 

He caught her hand and pulled her toward him, 
then kissed her on one soft, flaming cheek. 

“Phillip, how you frightened me! I thought it 
was one of the neighbors, truly.” She tried to 
cover her confusion by stooping to gather up her 
flowers. 

He looked at her keenly. 

“You don’t seem half glad to see me!” he said 
in a disappointed way. “The fall of those blue-bells 
is of much more interest.” She looked up into his 
face with a twinkle in her eyes. 

“Jealous!” she cried. “Who would have thought 
it? Jealous of some innocent flowers! I’ve picked 
them and do you want me to be so cruel as to leave 
them there to die?” 

“No,” he said, stooping down to help her. “Poor 
things!” 

“Phillip, you haven’t once asked me whether I 
am not surprised to see you. I am; quite as much 
as if you had dropped from the sky. Did they give 
you a ticket o’ leave? You have not graduated 


404 


REALIZING 


without sending us cards, surely. What is the mat- 
ter?” 

“Guess!” 

‘Til guess going up to the house. I want to put 
my flowers in water. Come, Doll, you’ve had 
enough.” She felt herself growing nervous, and a 
strange foreboding of coming evil pressed upon 
her. 

“Let’s have the guessing now,” he urged, taking 
Dolly by the bridle. “You never were good at solv- 
ing riddles, Pearl.” 

She stopped suddenly in front of him. “I’ll tell 
you. You have the war fever and have come home 
to say good-bye.” It was a random shot. Her 
father’s words had been her only cue. A smile was 
still parting her lips when his answer came. 

“That’s pretty good for the first trial. Yes, I am 
going to Cuba, but I am hardly willing to say I 
have the fever. I know most people call it so. 
Fevers are not to be relied upon, you know.” 

“Yes, I am going to Cuba.” The words fell upon 
her ear like the boom of a cannon and then began 
to echo and re-echo through her brain. The blue- 
bells seemed to fall withered in her hands. Phillip 
was looking straight into her eyes. Was it an hour 
since he had spoken? It seemed so. If she could 
only say something! What would he think! She 
made a supreme effort. 

“How handsome you’ll look in your uniform, 
Phillip!” 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


405 


A disappointed look passed over his face, but 
she did not see it. 

“I came home because of that letter of yours,” he 
said, ignoring* her last remark. “ Good-byes are not 
the most cheerful of duties we perform. I had 
about concluded to say my farewell in writing, but 
— ” He turned away from her to pat Dolly’s 
arching neck. 

“But what?” 

“I thought I’d like to see how nearly correct you 
were in details. I wish you could paint as well as 
you can write. I should give you an order.” 

She shook her head. “My talents do not lie in 
that direction, Phillip. Ah, there comes father. 
How surprised he will be! I will be out again in a 
moment. I must change my riding skirt.” 

She ran up the steps. Then he turned to await 
his uncle. 


CHAPTER XLV. 


SOLDIER PHILLIP’S VISIT, 

HE time glided quickly and happily 
away at the Clovers. Phillip had much 
to tell that was of interest to his uncle 
and cousin. He had, too, spent the 
evening with Mrs. Lansdowne and her 
daughters the day before he started for 
Cloverdale, and he had brought a little 
budget of news about the Beechdale 
“set” that made Pearl feel as though 
she were slipping, now and then, back into the past. 

“It is so strange, my feeling in regard to my visit 
there,” she remarked when she and Phillip were sit- 
ting together in the library one afternoon. “When 
you tell about the people it seems impossible that I 
was ever a part of that butterfly existence. If you 
should insist that I had been there only in a dream, 
I think I should actually begin to believe you.” 

“Perhaps it was only your astral body that so- 
journed there, after all. Would that theory sim- 
plify matters?” he asked. 

“Father would not think so. He was terribly 
homesick for his daughter, Phillip. It was selfish 
in me to leave him so long.” 

“O, some day he will have to spare you longer 



A MODERN PATRICIAN 


40 7 


than that,” he returned with an assurance as great 
as if he were stating a fact quite beyond dispute. 

She raised her eyes, inquiringly. 

‘‘Most girls, sooner or later, have the opportun- 
ity of setting up an establishment of their own,’ 1 he 
supplemented. He was stretched out lazily in a 
Morris chair. The eyes looking into hers had a 
careless, good-natured smile in them. 

In spite of his avowal in the letter she had found, 
in spite, too, of the pleasing knowledge that he had 
been drawn back to Cloverdale almost against his 
will, she began to question in her mind whether he 
really cared for her as much as she had fancied. 
The bare possibility that he did not seemed some- 
how to cause a blank in her life. The assurance 
that Phillip loved her had grown, almost uncon- 
sciously, to be a cherished day-dream. That she 
might have been inaccurate in her first judgments 
w r as an embarrassing confession to make even to 
herself. She answered him, therefore, with almost 
exaggerated carelessness in her tones. 

“That will be quite different, you know; that will 
be the inevitable. One can easily resign one's self 
to the inevitable, don't you think so?'' 

“The inevitable when it once confronts us is an 
easy conqueror.” 

A sudden silence fell between them. Silences are 
not always golden. They have a strange power of 
interpreting heartbeats when we would not. 


4o8 


SOLDIER PHILLIP'S VISIT 


“Are Fletcher and Yzabel as much in love as 
ever?” she broke in irrelevantly. 

“More so, I should judge. Yzabel has another 
ring — that is a larger set. The ring that Mr. Bos- 
kin gave Miss Wilby was a little finer, I believe, 
than Yzabel’s. Fletcher, model lover, could not 
endure Yzabel’s discomfiture, and Yzabel is still 
heaping endearments on his head.” 

The embarrassment of a few moments before van- 
ished entirely in the united laugh that followed. 
She felt quite equal now to asking him a question 
that had been upon her lips a dozen times since his 
return. She concluded to make the venture. 

“What has made you rush into this war, Phillip? 
Why not stay here and rest up during the summer 
and help me in my plans?” 

“What a question for my patriotic cousin to ask. 
My country is in need of men. Is not that sufficient 
reason?” 

“How do you know your country needs you? It 
does not need everybody,” she persisted. 

“I have no home — no family to leave. I have 
good health and perhaps a little skill that could 
not be put to better use than in relieving the suf- 
ferings of the brave fellows who go into the thick 
of the fray. It is a glorious cause. The world has 
never seen the like.” 

Her face reflected for a moment the light of ex- 
altation shining in his. 

“I knew,” she began, then stopped confusedly 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


409 


and looked at him. The rapt expression was still 
upon his face; he did not seem to have heard her. 

“When must you leave, Phillip ?" she asked, 
slowly. He heard this time. 

“Don't let us talk about that now. I will go as 
I came — suddenly." 

He looked out of the window as if something in- 
terested him there. 

“Say, Pearl, suppose we go out and take a stroll 
around the farm. The sun will be going down soon. 
I want to have a perfect picture of it all in my mind 
so I may wander back in my dreams." 

“Or in your astral body," she suggested. 

“I wouldn't mind," he answered, amusedly, en- 
joying the little allusion to his own remark. 

Then they went out together to visit the old, fa- 
miliar places. 

To the east and just across the ravine, a precipi- 
tous hill arose. Its sloping sides were carpeted! 
in the tender green of early summer. It was the 
finest site in all the countryside, and Pearl and Phil- 
lip had often climbed it together to watch the sun 
creep down into its crimson bed. 

“Are you tired, Phillip?" she asked. 

“Not a bit — why?" Do I look so?" 

“O, no; I wasn't calling you to order. I just 
wondered if you would care to make the top of the 
hill." 

“How strange!" he said, “I was just looking over 
there and thinking at the moment how I would en- 


4io 


SOLDIER PHILLIP’S VISIT 


joy taking one of our old-time runs. Shall we try 

a: r 

They started off as gayly as two children. Once 
across the ravine, they began the ascent. 

“We will both start right here, Phillip," sug- 
gested his companion. “Let us see who will reach 
the goal first/' 

They sprang forward at the appointed signal, and 
leaping, scrambling, falling, they reached the tree 
together. 

“Another proof of the equality of man and 
woman," she cried, triumphanty. They both 
dropped, panting and laughing on the ground. 

For awhile they sat quite still and watched the 
great flaming ball in the sky sink lower and lower 
until at last nothing but its blazing, crimson path- 
way marked where it had been. 

“What a glorious place this world would be," 
said Phillip, earnestly, “if every one who went into 
that mysterious beyond left after him the brilliant 
after-glow of a noble work all nobly done." 

“Phillip, how many men do you suppose will go 
into this war moved only by the highest incentives? 
It is a noble work — will it be nobly done? I heard 
not long ago of a man who desired to go because 
he had been refused by the woman whom he loved. 
He imagines he is serving his country. Do you 
think he is?" 

“It depends," he answered. “If the woman re- 
fused him because he was not worthy of her, I 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 411 

should say neither could he be worthy of his coun- 
try. The true patriot is the true lover.” 

His answer startled her. She wondered if he 
could have guessed of whom she spoke. She felt it 
wiser to turn the conversation. 

“Well, I know that you are a true patriot,” she 
exclaimed, warmth and admiration in her voice. 

“That remains to be proved; I have not been 
tried very severely yet.” 

“What would try you?” she asked. 

“We are not apt in foretelling our temptations. 
They generally come from some unexpected quar- 
ter.” 

She picked some tiny flowers beside her and ex- 
amined their mechanism, while she went on talking. 

“Suppose, Phillip — you know I love to suppose — 
that you had fallen in love with some one during 
your year at Leyton; suppose, too, she cared for 
you; that you might have a happy life together. 
Would you risk all this happiness by entrusting 
it to the uncertain kindnesses of war?” 

“A true woman is a noble patriot. She would 
rise above her own selfish love. She would make 
it easier for him to go — not harder — if the call 
should come. Say I had fallen in love during my 
stay at Leyton ( will admit the hypothesis for the 
sake of argument) I should still have come to Clov- 
erdale to have you wish me bon voyage on a south- 
ern sea.” 

“Phillip,” she exclaimed, impetuously. “You are 


412 


SOLDIER PHILLIP’S VISIT 


one of God’s noblemen!” She leaned over and 
placed one soft, warm hand on his. His heart 
throbbed fiercely at the touch. The whole flood of 
his passionate love that had been under control so 
long threatened to break its bounds. He closed 
his eyes for a moment to shut out the sight of her 
so perilously near. These unaffected words of ap- 
preciation were dangerously sweet, and he tried to 
beat in upon his intoxicated senses the truth that 
they were prompted by a loyal, sisterly affection. 
He fought desperately for self-control lest he 
should say or do that which he had vowed he never 
would. But the girl sitting beside him saw only a 
flushed, half-averted face. “Phillip, you bashful fel- 
low. Actually blushing because I gave you a scin- 
tilla of the just appreciation which you deserve.” 

He had been wondering how he might explain 
his discomposure which he was sure was visible. 
She offered him, unwittingly, a way of escape. He 
took immediate advantage of it. 

“I’m not used to being complimented by such 
women as you,” he answered with rather an awk- 
ward attempt at gallantry. 

“Shame, Phillip, shame! Paying me back in my 
own coin. Well, we’re even and so we would bet- 
ter go, I think. What time is it?” 

“Nearly six; supper time past.” 

“And Janet was going to make some Johnny 
cakes especially for you! She’ll be overwhelmed 
with regrets if you should not get there when they 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


413 


are piping hot. Come, I wonder how soon we can 
make it?” 

They stood still a moment and glanced at the 
rose gleam in the west. 

“Evening red and morning grey sets the traveller 
on his way,” repeated the girl. “It will be a 
bright day tomorrow, won’t it, Phillip? Signs 
and crops never fail in the country.” 

“One wouldn’t think so, the way they are 
trusted,” he answered, smiling. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 
OFF FOR SAN JUAN. 


J Pearl was coming down to her break- 
fast the next morning she heard her 
father giving directions in regard to 
some fine fruit trees that he had set 
out the previous fall. She thought she 
recognized Phillip's step on the porch. 

“O, Phillip/' she called, as she en- 
tered the dining-room, “we have not 
been to the new orchard. How stupid ! 
The trees are so beautiful. Let us go this morn- 
ing. Where's Phillip?" she inquired, as her father 
came in. 

He took out his watch and looked at it. “Six- 
thirty!" he said, reflectively, and still regarding the 
time-piece in his hand. “I presume he is nearly to 
Falston now." He looked at her. 

“Gone? Phillip gone?" Her voice showed she 
was wounded, deeply wounded. 

“Did you know last night he was going?" she 
asked, reproachfully. 

“Not until after you had retired. He told me 
then. He gave good-night and good-bye together. 
I did not see him again. John said he went a little 
before five. He left good-bye for you, Pearl. He 
did not want to pain you by saying farewell and 



A MODERN PATRICIAN 


4i5 


thought it best for you to remember the happy day 
and evening you had together/’ 

“Was he afraid that I would not be able to pre- 
serve my equanimity?” There was just a tinge of 
anger apparent in her voice. “Men do not like 
scenes, I know, but I have never given him reason 
to fear for me.” 

“Not at all, not at all, daughter. You wrong 
him. He acted so only out of kindness. It may 
have been mistaken kindness, but his heart was all 
right.” 

Her keen sense of justice was aroused. She was 
sorry for her words. 

“I’ll forgive him if he will come back and say he 
is sorry for casting such reflections upon feminine 
fortitude.” A trace of tears crept into her dark 
eyes. “Now let us have breakfast. I think I will 
go myself to the orchard before Ben comes today.” 

Wayland Stewart was disappointed at the turn 
of affairs. He did not fancy such abrupt disposal of 
the subject. He had thought for the moment that 
his daughter was deeply affected, and then she had 
brought the little episode to a close as a summarily 
as if it had been a chapter of a book> at the bottom 
of which was written “finis,” but he pushed the sub- 
ject no further. He always manifested the same 
deference to his daughter’s wishes as he required 
from her. 

The day passed slowly — very slowly for Pearl, 
though she managed to keep more busy than usual. 


4i6 


OFF FOR SAN JUAN 


She even' formulated some new plans for the school, 
a thing she had been trying to accomplish for some 
time. She congratulated herself upon her day’s 
achievements. That night, though, she cried a little 
on her pillow — but only a little ; she would prove to 
herself that she was brave. She looked up toward 
the glorious evening star shining through her win- 
dow and tried to wonder just what it was, whether 
there were beings there like herself and whether 
they were always happy. Its influence soothed her 
and presently she slept. 

They received a few lines from Phillip soon after 
his arrival at Chickamauga. He told them of his 
good fortune in getting the appointment of first as- 
sistant surgeon in the Hospital Corps of Volun- 
teers. He was very busy, but promised to write 
again from Tampa. 

Many hours were spent by father and daughter 
as they sat together under the evening sky, wonder- 
ing what Phillip was doing or calculating how soon 
his regiment would be deported. But neither of 
them ever alluded to the possibility of Phillip never 
coming back. They seemed to avoid this topic by 
tacit consent; perhaps, because of the inherent su- 
perstition of the human heart, — that to anticipate 
misfortunes tends to hasten their approach. 

The days that ran into weeks and the weeks that 
seemed likely to lengthen into months for the 
twenty-five thousand men impatiently sweltering 
under a tropical sun and waiting for the signal to 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


4X7 


move were days and weeks of feverish anxiety in 
as many homes. Time and again, breaking hearts 
in those homes were called upon to go through the 
agony of that separation, bitterest and most abso- 
lute of all, when they caught a mind vision of loaded 
transports bearing out to sea their dearly loved. 
And still the agony was prolonged. 

At last, however, a telegram came from Phillip. 
It was sent the evening of the day he sailed and 
conveyed the usual satisfaction of telegrams. It 
read : 

“Embarked this morning: Exact destination un- 
known. Will write when possible. 

PHILLIP.” 

The morning papers of June twenty-second gave 
to an eager people the news that the first American 
troops had landed on foreign soil, and the eyes of a 
breathless nation were turned upon a little, dirty, 
Cuban village hundreds of miles away. 

Pearl slipped upstairs and opened the door of 
Phillip’s room. Some few fancy articles that had 
been packed away in the trunk which he had sent 
trom Leyton were on the dresser. He had told her 
to dispose of them as she chose. She had chosen to 
put them out. She wished she had not now. It 
gave her an uncanny, creeping feeling to see them 
there. She went over and looked at a cabinet pho- 
tograph of Phillip. She had brought the picture 
from her own room from a pathetic notion that it 
seemed more as if Phillip himself were there. It 


4i 8 


OFF FOR SAN JUAN 


seemed to her now as though she were gazing on 
the features of the dead. The things that she had 
been so pleased to place about the room suddenly 
lost their potent charm. She shrank from touching 
them as one does a body when the soul has myste- 
riously, silently, gone from it forever. She turned 
with almost terrified haste to leave. But she closed 
the door softly as one would the door of a death 
chamber. 

Perhaps other women that day and many a day 
afterward went up to vacant rooms, gazed hungrily 
on pictured features, tlien reverently and - fearfully 
closed the door behind them. 

After the news of the landing at Barquiri there 
was nothing to do but wait the shock of battle. 
When two days later it came the horror of it smote 
the American people as cruelly as the bullets and 
shrapnel did the brave fellows at Guasimas. Cold, 
trembling fingers grasped the sheets from daily 
press, and eager eyes swept d'own the fateful col- 
umns to find there life or death to hope. 

Pearl breathed a prayer of thankfulness each time 
that Phillip’s name was not among the doomed. 
She began to realize in these days how much he 
was to her, now that at any moment he might be 
lost to her forever. She knew his fearless adher- 
ence to duty and she gloried in it; but she dreaded 
the results, for bravery on the battlefield finds of- 
tener its reward in bullets than in added shoulder 
straps. 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


419 


And one night as she and her father were driving 
home through the still fragrant summer air, twelve 
thousand men were creeping, slipping along the 
narrow trail leading to El Paso — and Phillip was 
among the number. 


CHAPTER XLVII. 


THE- WOUNDED ROUGH RIDER. 

HEN warrior hearts are beating in wild 
ecstasy of desperate enterprise, when 
the air is still vibrant with cries of tri- 
umph, as the victorious standard is be- 
ing planted deep in hostile ground; in 
those brief moments are experienced 
the ineffable thrills of patriotic joy. 
But in the next the light of transfigura- 
tion begins to fade, the white-robed 
spirit of victory vanishes and the sad trophies of the 
martial god lie scattered across her pathway. 

Death levels all men. Upon the battle-field of San 
Juan lay the Indian, — his stern, swarthy features up- 
turned to the pitiless sky — pierced through to the 
heart, stretched by his side, wearing his dignity 
even in death — a Captain of the! Regulars; a little 
farther on by the stream that still rolled a crimson 
tide a lieutenant dying with three of his faithful 
black troopers fallen near him: the Indian, the white 
man and the black; officer and trooper, scholar and 
the rider of the plains lay side by side. So does a 
common cause make brothers of us all. 

The sun was beginning its descent across the 
western sky. Back and forth along the trail, up 
and down the hill slopes, men with long, swinging, 



A MODERN PATRICIAN 


421 


unwearying strides were passing, bearing in their 
arms, across their shoulders or on litters the 
wounded to places of safety. 

The ceaseless clatter of the land crabs and the 
ominous whirring sound of the foul-winged buz- 
zards as they poised in the air, or sat, grim watchers 
of death, upon a roadside tree, struck a cold chill 
to the heart. 

Groups of men sank their spades in the dark, 
rank earth and prepared the trenches destined as 
the last tenting ground of hundreds of the soldier 
boys. 

The sun dropped at last, a blood-red ball, into a 
sea of flame behind the regal cloud-capped moun- 
tains. Phillip laid his fingers tenderly upon the 
half-closed lids of a dying soldier. There was a 
spasmodic heaving of the chest, and it was all over 
He was dark-skinned, but no more deference could 
have been shown to any than was displayed by the 
young surgeon toward his dark-hued brother. The 
black hand and the white were still clasped together 
as they had been when the pain-distorted lips had 
whispered. 

“Surgeon, you’ve made it easy foa me to die. 
You’ve been kind. It’s wuth the bullets to be 
treated like a white man. And — if you find the 
Lieutenant be shoa to tell him I started foa help 
but fell befoa I got there. Can you raise me a lit- 
tle, surgeon? I want to see the flags upon the 
crest. Bless the Lawd! the black man can fight at 


422 THE WOUNDED ROUGH RIDER 


last foa his country !” The soul broke the bars of 
its dusky prison and was free. 

Phillip withdrew his hand from the relaxing fin- 
igers and turned to see aproaching him three Red 
Cross nurses and a dirty, tattered Cuban, bearing 
with them the form of a Rough Rider. One of the 
wounded man's hands hung limply over the bear- 
er's arm. It showed the shapely fingers of the 
young aristocrat and he wore the insignia of offi- 
cial rank. 

“We found him in the woods a couple of yards 
from the trail," said one of the men. 

“Take him there to the station," ordered the sur- 
geon. “I will see to him at once." He stooped 
down over the silent body at his feet, lifted a broken 
palm leaf from the ground and laid' it gently over 
the dead man's face. Then he turned to administer 
to the living. 

The brilliant after-glow of the vanished sun 
lighted up the whole landscape. It gave a momen- 
tary health gleam to the pallid face on the banks 
of the little stream. Phillip took a roll of lint from 
the hands of a surgeon at his side and went to his 
new patient. When he reached him a low exclama- 
tion broke from his lips. 

“Do you know him?" asked a hospital steward 
who was aiding Phillip. 

“Yes. He is an acquaintance of mine. He is 
Lieutenant Douglass." Then he began to bathe the 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


423 


angry wound in the left breast and pressed a ball 
of lint into the gaping rent. 

“He will hardly regain consciousness,” he re- 
marked, as he felt the wounded man s pulse. 

“I wonder if he may be the Lieutenant to whom 
the black trooper yonder tried to bring aid,” re- 
marked the steward. “He said he left him in the 
woods a little back from the trail.” 

“Quite likely.” Phillip's laconic answers forbade 
many inquiries. He ordered one of the nurses to 
keep watch of the patient and to call him if there 
should be any change. Others, struck down a few 
moments before in the rifle pits, were being carried 
in. 

From the hills beyond came the sound of shot 
and shell, but where the wounded were lying quiet 
reigned. Only the musical note of a brush cuckoo 
calling at intervals to its mate or the plaintive coo 
of a dove was heard from the deep thickets near. 

Some half-hour later the steward returned to Phil- 
lip and said in a low tone: 

“I think, surgeon, if you would like to speak to 
the Lieutenant he might recognize you now. He 
seemed to be conscious a few minutes ago.” 

Phillip hesitated as he looked after the retreating 
steward, but the hesitation was only for a moment; 
then personal considerations sank before the one 
overpowering fact that a soul was slipping into eter- 
nity, unfriended and in an alien land; that he was 
dear to some far away who would cherish as their 


424 THE WOUNDED ROUGH RIDER 


only crumb of comfort a last message from his dy- 
ing lips. 

He crossed over and stood silently a moment be- 
side the limp figure stretched before him. The 
gleam from the lantern in his hand fell wierdly 
across the pale features, the eyes were closed. Per- 
haps Phillip’s intent gaze had power to summon 
back to this world the spirit slowly drifting beyond. 
There was a flutter of the eyelids for an instant 
then they were lifted wearily and the dying man 
looked up at the tall figure at his side. Phillip saw 
that the glance was one of reason. He knelt upon 
the ground and took one of the cold hands in his. 
A swift and instant look of recognition was flashed 
back. 

“Do you know me, Douglass?” asked Phillip. 
There was a painful struggle with an overpowering 
weakness, a slight spasmodic tightening of the fin- 
gers, then — 

“Vail! Where am I?” 

“At the dressing station. You were carried here 
late this afternoon. You have lost much blood and 
must not make too great effort to speak.” 

But the admonition was unheeded. “Is the wound 
serious?” 

“Yes, and you would without doubt have been 
killed but the ball was swerved from its mark by 
striking a trinket you wore.” 

“I have not much longer to live, then?” 

Phillip shrank from answering. It is not easy 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


425 


to tell a man he is dying when he puts the question; 
yet it was the duty of the moment. 

“To all human appearances you have nearly run 
life’s race/’ came the low answer. “Death may 
come at any moment or it may delay some hours — 
I cannot say.” 

Douglass lifted his head feebly and Phillip saw he 
was trying to pull the slender chain around to which 
was attached a small, thin silver case. Phillip had 
thrown it back over Douglass’ shoulder while at- 
tending to the wound. 

“Open it.” 

Phillip did so. The inside w r as lined with delicate- 
ly ornamental sandal-wood. Between the lids were 
the crumbling, faded petals of a rose and written 
across one lid were the words: “Given by Mar- 
garet.” 

The hand that held the trinket trembled for an 
instant as much as did the dying one stretched to 
receive it. Neither spoke. Phillip’s face wore an 
expression of mingled pain and sternness. He was 
back once more at brilliant Beechdale and he saw 
the careless, handsome libertine stealing away his 
spotless flower. Douglass, too, leaped the chasm 
of the past and was again by the side of the woman 
he had so madly and hopelessly loved. A look of 
ecstatic happiness lit up the dulled eyes for a mo- 
ment. Then he tried to close the case. 

The action brought Phillip to himself. He took 


426 THE WOUNDED ROUGH RIDER 


it and shut the lid as tenderly and as carefully as 
Douglass would have done. 

“You do not — begrudge me — this?” Douglass 
asked. 

There was something infinitely pathetic in the 
question — a man slipping into' eternity asking one 
full of life and strength if he envied him the posses- 
sion of a dead flower. Phillip was not ashamed of 
the tears that sprang into> his eyes. 

“Give me something to — keep life in a little long- 
er!” implored the dying man. 

“I want to tell you — ” He was too weak to finish 
the sentence. 

Phillip hastily poured some brandy from a flask 
and placed it to the blue lips. Then he wiped the 
death beads from his brow. 

“Thank you!” he whispered. 

“You should not try to talk,” Phillip advised 
again. 

The stimulant, however, had given a momentary 
renewal of strength. 

“I must say now — what I — have to. Can you lift 
my head? There!” He looked intently at Phillip. 

“I am not sorry to be here. I sought death — and 
death for once has been kind. They will reckon me 
no doubt — as one who — lost — his life in his coun- 
try's cause! You perhaps may know better. I had 
not the courage — to live. I sought an honorable 
exit!” 

Even when dying irony fell naturally from the lips 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


427 


of this blase man of the world. He motioned for an- 
other draught of brandy. 

“I should have liked to die on the — hills, but — we 
can’t have all the good things we desire.” 

A smile flitted over his face, like the fitful gleam 
from dying embers. “A wounded negro' insisted 
upon starting up the trail to bring me help. I was — 
afraid he would succeed and dragged myself into the 
— bushes. I saw you pass by once. A fellow can 
never rely on a doctor. He cures as often as he 
kills. I did not know but — what you — might patch 
— me up.” 

A sudden spasm of pain distorted his features. 

“Are you suffering?” asked Phillip. 

“Pm all — right; just a — little twinge. This pain 
is nothing — nothing I have suffered deeply — far 
more — deeply i” 

“Shall I take any message to your sister?” asked 
Phillip anxiously. 

“Only — that I fell while — making the charge. 
She would — have been better pleased if I had 
reached the hill-top. I have upheld the Douglass 
honor, though! That is — most important!” 

Then Phillip did battle with himself for an in- 
stant. The charge was a magnificent and deter- 
mined one, but at the end the standard of honor was 
floating over the enemy’s ramparts. 

“Have you any message for — Margaret?” 

A look of surprise, then incredulity, then admira- 
tion swept in swift succession) over the white face. 


428 THE WOUNDED ROUGH RIDER 


Then firmly and without a trace of the emotion he 
had exhibited a little while before came the one 
word — “Nothing ! ” 

Phillip took the poor nerveless hand in his. 

“Douglass/ 5 he said, “I meant what I said. I 
swear it! Have you no message ?” 

“None! I believe — in you Vail and — honor you. 
I think I always have — in my heart. I’ve kept you 
too long away — . The rest need you. I want — to 
— sleep.” He closed his eyes wearily and Phillip 
arose. 

He was asleep when Phillip passed that way again 
but it was the deep sleep of exhaustion. On through 
the long, perilous night/ and through the next day 
Douglass lived. The strong, massive frame yielded 
reluctantly to death. 

“He can’t die till they play the music. That’s 
what he’s waitin’ foa!” remarked a superstitious ne- 
gro, who had watched by his side at intervals 
through the day. 

When the sun was once more crimsoning the 
West, just as the exultant sound of the Star Span- 
gled Banner burst forth, Douglass opened his eyes. 
There was the far-seeing look of death in them, and 
the rapturous notes of American song drifted to 
him as it were from the unseen land. Phillip was 
by his side, but the eyes raised toward his saw no- 
thing of this world. 

The firing away on the hills ceased. Over all a 
reverent silence as by magic fell. Men stood bare- 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


429 

headed with the last gleams of the vanishing sun 
resting in benediction upon them. It was the An- 
gelus of the battle-field ! 

Suddenly the dying man with a supreme effort of 
strength raised himself on his elbow. A look of 
frantic determination came upon his face and into 
his sightless eyes. “I must — get — farther back — 
before — they — come!” he said wildly. 

Phillip pressed him gently hack. A bright red 
stream gushed from between the set lips. It fell up- 
on Phillip’s hand. There was a gasp — then another 
and — the end. 

The last throbbing notes of the anthem went float- 
ing across to the men standing silent in their rifle- 
pits. It swept on mockingly to the conquered host 
in the valley below and broke against the everlast- 
ing hills. 


CHAPTER XCVIII. 


WAITING. 

T was the bitter with the sweet that was 
sent across the sea after the battle of 
San Juan. A great victory was won 
but many of America’s sons were left 
sleeping in an alien land and in graves 
never to be consecrated by a mother’s 
tears. A swift and mighty shout of joy 
rent the heavens, yet with it came the 
cry of Rachel weeping for her children 
and would not be comforted. 

Pearl went often to the village post-office during 
those days of anxiety but no letter rewarded her. 
She and her father still scanned eagerly the official 
lists of the killed and wounded. Lieutenant Doug- 
lass, of Company E., Rough Riders, was noted one 
day among the dead and Pearl was conscious of a 
wave of pity sweeping over her as she read it — 
pity for a wasted life. Even in the first surprise and 
indignation at the revelation of this man’s charac- 
ter she had never lost sight of the fact, that he had 
shown to her, in their brief accquaintance, his no- 
bler nature — the nature not entirely obliterated 1 
though in such pitiable subjection to his baser self. 

With the uncomfortably vivid imagination of a 
woman, Pearl attributed Phillip’s silence to all sorts 



A MODERN PATRICIAN 


43i 


of evils^possible and impossible, and flung from 
her almost impatiently the more reasonable one of 
imperfect mail service. She tried to reconcile her- 
self to the thought that he was dead and the result 
was not unfavorable to Phillip's cause. It is the 
very mockery of fate that affords us the sweetest 
and truest visions of our dear ones when they have 
vanished from our sight forever. Now that it 
seemed probable to her languishing hopes that 
Phillip was lost to her, she no longer refused to ex- 
amine her heart to see if hidden in any corner the 
little love god, unknown to herself had been for 
this long time sheltered; and under Cupid's magic 
spell she beheld Phillip as she had never yet beheld 
him. He was one, not only true, noble and un- 
selfish, but one, who had at last by his very gentle- 
ness conquered her restless heart. She felt that all 
her deepest longings, her highest aspirations had 
been understood by him. Through him alone might 
life's symphony have been complete. The awaken- 
ing was perilous to her peace of mind. If possible, 
she knew that she must soothe her soul to sleep 
once more. 

The harvest time was close at hand now and the 
pleasant evenings at the “school" were at an end. 
At their last meeting six more young people stepped 
out with her from school-room than had entered it 
three months before, and there was no wild boister- 
ousness, no rude jokes when she walked, sweet and 
dignified among these sturdy youths of the country 


43 2 


WAITING 


side. Somehow without talking it she had uncon- 
sciously instilled into them the desire to be not un- 
worthy of her esteem and even of her admiration 
and she recognized the change. And the people of 
Cloverdale had even in this short time begun to 
realize that a good teacher was better than a cheap 
one so when Wayland Stewart headed a subscrip- 
tion list for procuring a first-class instructor the 
coming school year (which was to last at least eight 
months) he found it no very difficult task to get 
those who were willing to follow his example. Pearl 
could certainly lay down her work with a feeling of 
supreme satisfaction. Her cup of happiness had 
been full to overflowing, could she have felt that 
Phillip might rejoice with her. 

Late one afternoon toward the end of August, 
Wayland Stewart entered the library where Pearl 
sat sewing. She had heard him coming up the 
gravel-path and across the porch with a step quick- 
er than usual. Bad news is seldom interpreted with 
springing steps and her heart bounded with hope. 
When he entered the room with a letter in his hand 
held toward her, she felt that she had seen and 
known all about it from the moment she first heard 
his approaching footsteps. 

“From Phillip?” she asked eagerly. 

“You don't deserve it, such a bird of ill-omen,” he 
answered teasing^ 

But she had no time to retort. She sprang to- 
ward him and took the letter from his hand. 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


433 


‘‘Well, father, not opened yet!” 

“I have not been to the village. I was just com- 
ing home from Mr. Wilder’s and met John at the 
gate. He gave me the letter, so you see I have not 
had much time.” 

“No” — (a little doubtfully) “but if it had been 
mine I think I should have torn it open as I walked 
up.” 

“O, but that’s a woman’s way,” he answered. 
“They are always curious.” She laughed and 
spread the letter before her. 

It was written on the second night after the bat- 
tle of San Juan. Phillip said little about himself ex- 
cept that he was well and very busy. “This experi- 
ence,” he wrote, “will be worth as much to me as a 
year of hospital service at home. Many are down 
with fever and must be cared for in addition to the 
wounded.” He concluded by expressing his con- 
fidence that the war would soon be over and begged 
a letter from both his uncle and cousin with all the 
news from home. 

What white-winged messengers of joy and hope 
such silent missives often are! In a moment, the 
world for Pearl was full of sunlight. Phillip was 
alive and well six weeks before. That fact was all- 
sufficient now. News six weeks old under some cir- 
cumstances would have been of little value, but 
when it had brought the dead to life, hope could 
span the intervening time. 

“Well, I hope the war really will be at an end 


434 


WAITING 


shortly and it looks as though it might be now,” 
commented her father. 

“O, do you really think so?” she exclaimed joy- 
ously, and a few moments later she wondered 
whether the volunteers in that case would not soon 
return. 

“I should think so,” replied her father. “I would 
not be surprised, however, to hear that Phillip had 
become so enamoured with the Pearl of the Antilles 
that he would seek service there. He gives a glow- 
ing 1 description of it.” 

“Father, you are guilty of trying to perpetrate a 
joke!” 

“Well, I believe I was successful, was I not?” He 
looked narrowly at her glowing face. “Putting all 
jokes aside, however,” he continued, “I think it 
might be a fine thing for Phillip.” 

“Yes, if he could keep well himself,” she an- 
swered, uneasiness reflected in her tones. 

“Such a girl! The danger signal out again. 
Where has my daughter’s eternal hopefulness 
gone?” He glanced at the clock. “ I must see John 
about those Bartletts, Pearl. I will be back soon. 
You can read your letter over to pass the time.” 

She did and a second perusal seemed to be a dif- 
ficult task, at least the time consumed would war- 
rant such conclusion. After she had finished she 
sat quite still, weaving pretty fairy scenes out of her 
own fertile fancy with Phillip as tbe valiant Prince 
and some one very like herself as the enchanted 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


435 


maiden. But by and 1 by there came the evil spirit 
in the vale of loveliness — peace-breaking premoni- 
tion weaving its ill-omened spells. What indeed if 
Phillip, feeling there was nothing to come home for, 
should, as her father hinted, still remain away or, 
what if passing safe through all the dangers of the 
battle-field he should at last succumb to fever or to 
overwork! The very thought of it made her wild. 
Her fairy visions vanished and she walked nervous- 
ly toward the window. She remembered then he 
had begged for a letter. If it took as long for one 
to reach him as it did for them to get his the sooner 
it was written the better, she decided. 

She went to her desk and got out her materials. 
The very action seemed to bring him nearer, and 
who could tell but that it did? She wrote steadily 
and swiftly for some time, then the busy pen paused 
in its rapid flight across the page. A half smile 
played about her lips, just the shadow of perplexity 
rested on her brow. Once or twice the difficulty, 
whatever it was, seemed about to be solved and the 
pen again touched the paper, but only to be again 
removed. At last, however, her thoughts began to 
flow without interruption. The puckers in the brow 
vanished and the smile broadened on her lips as she 
re-read the paragraph just written. 

“Father misses you, Phillip, for you see I cannot 
talk politics as well as you, though he is too polite, 
of course, to tell me so. Perhaps he thinks he will 
have to submit to the inevitable for he said — what 


436 


WAITING 


do you think he said, Phillip? — that he would not be 
surprised should you become so enamoured of the 
Pearl of the Antilles, as to remain with her. Sure- 
ly you would not be so unfaithful ! Phillip, the Pearl 
of Cloverdale wants you very, very much. x Will you 
come?” 

The clock on the mantel struck and reminded her 
that her father had been gone almost an hour. She 
had thought from what he said he would be back 
very shortly. It was surprising, though, how quick- 
ly the moments had flown. With lighter heart than 
when she had sat down at her desk she arose and 
went out to wait for him. 

A little later when the two re-entered the room 
her father saw on her desk the letter directed to 
Phillip. 

“Written to Phillip?” he asked quite as though 
it were a question of only indifferent interest to him. 

“Yes, I had nothing to do. I thought we should 
send one as soon as possible since it might be long 
in reaching him.” 

“Phillip will appreciate the thoughtfulness, I am 
sure,” he remarked. 

She was looking intently at a magazine on the 
table and Way land Stewart was scanning keenly 
his daughter's face. He must have seen something 
there that pleased! him for he smiled. Perhaps he 
thought Phillip also would be interested in his dis- 
covery for, after the two had a few hours later 
parted for the night, another letter was directed to 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


437 


Assistant-Surgeon Phillip Vail. This was, however, 
hidden away in Wayland Stewart's coat pocket and 
though he w r as a man and subject to the failings of 
his sex there was not much fear that he would for- 
get to mail it. 4 


CHAPTER XLIX 


PHILLIP WINS- 

HE twelfth day of August, eighteen hun- 
dred and ninety-nine, will remain long 
in the memories of those who had boys 
“at the front.” The news that peace 
had come was met with one united 
psean of joy; the jubilant notes swept 
across the deep, blue sea and broke up- 
on the shores of the land of unwalled 
cities. 

The days of harvest passed and their treasures of 
gold and purple and scarlet were gathered in au- 
tumn with her sunset tints, flung here and there 
her gorgeous coloring. Hill and valley burned be- 
neath her touch and woodland streams blushed as 
she glanced into their crystal depths. A tender, 
sweet expectancy trembled in the air. 

The latch string of many a door hung loose. 
Many an ear was strained to hear the first glad echo 
of returning steps and in many a home gleaming 
white against the burnished hills sat eager watchers 
for a boy in blue. 

The next letter received from Phillip had evident- 
ly crossed Pearl's answer, for he made no allusion 
to it. She was sorely disappointed, but tried to ob- 
tain consolation from the hope that her letter would 1 



A MODERN PATRICIAN 


439 


bring him to her side when duty allowed. So the 
Clovers also had its waiting hearts. 

September purpled into October. The woods 
were vocal with the farewell carols of their tiny 
songsters, winging their southward way. The rich 
brown nuts snapped their chains in twain to hide 
away among the russet leaves and listen to their 
low, soft, crooning lullabies. 

There is something infinitely sad, tenderly sug- 
gestive of the past in the ripe beauty of the autumn. 
Pearl, as she thrilled to its rich music, went back in 
memory to other autumns when she and Phillip had 
wandered through the flaming woods or watched 
the shifting glories of a setting sun. She was linger- 
ing over those happy, careless hours where for the 
first time she had learned of Phillip's love. How 
long ago it seemed — how very long ago ! She won- 
dered when it was that Phillip had first learned how 
much she was to him. She tried to fathom, too, 
that other mystery as great — when her own heart 
had felt the first, faint stirrings of the tender, sweet 
emotion that now possessed her soul. So she sat 
and dreamed. 

An artist beholding her, might have fancied that 
he too had caught the vision which inspired the 
peerless Raphael to paint the Holy Mother and 
would have stood entranced and reverent, a lover, 
stealing thence would have felt that all youth's rosy 
dreams need now be dreams no longer, but fulfill- 


440 


PHILLIP WINS 


ments and would have clasped 1 her in his arms. And 
Love first found her. 

Coming quickly, softly across the lawn was one, 
whose tall, straight figure suited well his soldier 
garb. Within a few yards of the rustic bench on 
which she sat, the stranger paused. The girl neither 
saw nor heard him. He moved still closer. 

“Pearl!” 

Deep, tender, vibrant was the utterance of her 
name. She knew the voice before she turned to see 
its owner. As tender and as vibrant came the an- 
swer: 

“Phillip!” But she sat quite still. 

In old days, she would have started impetuously 
from her seat, would have clasped her arms about 
his neck, pelted him with countless questions, re- 
proached him for his long delay. He hardly knew 
this sweet and serious woman who had 1 flung her 
heart to him in that one simple word. There was 
something of the glad restfulness in the cry which 
the waiting bird sends forth to greet its long delay- 
ing but returning mate. And' Phillip heard and she 
was gathered to his heart. Her proud head fell 
low upon his breast, his bronzed face touched her 
soft dark hair. The coldly gracious words that she 
had planned to say, the wooing she had meant to 
have had fled before Love’s arbitrary will. 

If Phillip had doubted often on his homeward 
way, his interpretation of her summons, had ques- 
tioned, too, his uncle’s sanguine hopes, he read now 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


441 


assurance in her eyes and voice. Love needs no 
words to make its meaning plain; a look, a touch, 
a cry is pregnant with a world of thought. But 
how this joy had come to him he could not com- 
prehend. 

“I cannot understand !' 7 he whispered. 

She raised her head and smiled into his perplexed 
face. 

“Understand- — what?" 

“That you should love me. I have loved so long 
without dreaming it could ever be." He said it al- 
most sadly for the shadows of the past still hid the 
full, sweet day-break of his happiness. A sudden 
sense that there might be a lack of womanly dignity 
in her attitude toward him rushed upon her. 

“You never seemed to care to understand. Why 
should you take it so for granted that — ‘that things 
are different with us now?" 

“You did not mean it after all?" She did not see 
the half-amused expression on his face. 

“Mean what?" 

“Why, that you love me." 

“I did not say so," she answered 1 desperately. 

“Try it now!" he pleaded. 

“Don't you understand a woman does not like to 
have a man take for granted that she loves him? 
He should ask the question quite as if he did not 
know." 

“No, I didn't know," he replied humbly. “I 
haven't had much practise. I am sorry that I — " 


442 


PHILLIP WINS 


He didn’t finish his apology. Pride fell and Love 
rushed in and took the citadel. She lifted up her 
arms and drew his face to hers. A whisper soft as 
zephyr-breath fell on his ear: 

“I love you!” 

And there was a new heaven and a new earth, for 
the former things had passed away. 

“My Margaret!” he said some half hour later 
when reason had returned. She started painfully 
at the name. 

“Have you no regrets for the past?” he asked 
earnestly. 

She understood. “None! None, my Phillip!” 

Then as they walked toward the house he began 
to tell her of Douglass’ last hours. 

“Phillip,” she said, when he had ended, “if women 
would demand from men more than riches, lineage, 
fame, how different many homes might become!” 

As they entered the house, its emptiness suddenly 
reminded her of what had strangely been forgotten. 

“I wonder why father has not come ! He is never 
so late without having told me of his intention be- 
forehand.” There was real alarm in her voice. 

Phillip laid a reassuring hand upon her arm and 
drew her down beside him. 

“There is no need for anxiety. I saw him before 
I saw you. I paid my respects and then asked in 
well-regulated form though, perhaps, a little abrupt- 
ly, if I might plead my cause with you. He gave 
me God-speed on my errand, and added it might be 


A MODERN PATRICIAN 


443 


some time before he came back since he knew you 
were in good hands/' 

When they had settled back once more Phillip 
asked: “Have you thought, Pearl, that in marry- 
ing me you marry a poor, country doctor?" 

“Phillip, you dear, dear fellow! Indeed, I have 
been so foolishly happy that I have not given a 
thought to the more serious future, but you have 
lifted a burden from my shoulders before I was af- 
lowed to feel it. If you had concluded to practise 
in the city, I should have had a grave question to 
settle. Father is getting too old to leave the farm. 
It is his life you know; yet how could I ever have 
left him alone? But Phillip, love, are you sure you 
will be contented, with your talent and greater pros- 
pects, to settle here?" 

“Quite happy and contented, darling. The people 
of Cloverdale are yours and mine. I have grown 
to love them and I want to help them. You have 
taught me to look with reverence upon these roll- 
ing hills and deep, calm valleys. I believe God, 
speaks here to me. I want to help you. We are 
but two among many, but consecrated lives can re- 
move mountains of difficulty. We and our neigh- 
bors shall make of this spot the ideal country side, 
shall we not, my Pearl?" 

“Yes!" and then she added reflectively: “Phillip, 
it is not after all how far we reach above men's 
heads that brings us to the stars ; it is how high we 
lift our fellow men." 


444 


PHILLIP WINS 


“My Pearl, of priceless worth, lost once but found 
and now, thank God, my own forever !” He 
breathed reverently, as if the jewel were almost too 
sacred for him to wear. 

A little after, Wayland Stewart, stepping softly 
toward the door, found them, hand in hand, the 
mellow light of the shaded lamp falling softly on 
their faces. It was a long, long time now since he 
and the mother of the girl yonder had sat just so, 
with the same sweet story written on their faces. 
A sudden pain pressed the lines more deeply in his 
forehead, for true joy is ever bitter-sweet. 

He sighed, then walked to where they sat, a smile 
of benediction in his eyes. 













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